To Continue the Fight
by butterfly52
Summary: When defeat at the barricade becomes inevitable, the few surviving members of the Friends of the ABC are reluctantly separated from their chief. Enjolras alone is taken alive by the National Guard after entrusting Combeferre to protect the others. Unknown to any of them, both Grantaire and Marius live. After such a thorough defeat, it seems impossible to know the way forward.
1. Taking Leave

**Here's something new I've been brainstorming. Let me know what you think, if it's worth continuing. I've posted the first two chapters, and definitely intend this to be a longer story if the interest and readership is there, so reviews will be extremely appreciated! **

"You have to get them out of here," Enjolras said as calmly as he could muster to a horrified Combeferre. They were leaning fiercely against the increasingly unstable barricade, bracing themselves with each gun shot sound.

"I've said before, we'll share your fate, Enjolras," was the medical student's resolute reply.

"It's over," replied Enjolras. "I won't allow lives to be wasted. You need to live to fight again. When the people are ready."

"So do you, my friend."

A bullet whistled past, sending shattered fragments of a table in its wake, and barely missing them. Enjolras looked at the chaotic seen. There was hardly anyone still alive. A few members of the ill fated Friends of the ABC still fought, but the barricade was lost. It broke his heart, but Enjolras knew it. And he refused to lead his comrades further to the slaughter if there was the least bit of strength left in him to protect them. He looked at Combeferre, his oldest and dearest friend who he knew would gladly follow him into certain death, and his resolve only got stronger.

"I promise I'll try," he said. He motioned to a dimly lit alley-way. "If you go right now, I think you can escape. Lose the guns as soon as you think its safe, then do your best to pass for bystanders."

"Not without you," Combeferre protested.

"I'll find you," Enjolras insisted. "They'll recognize me and we'll all be caught if I go with you. They know I'm the leader, so I'm going to lead them off. But I'll evade them. I know my way around here, probably better than they do. I'll give you the opportunity to get out, and then I will find you. Then we'll all regroup and return to work. I promise."

"You're lying Enjolras," said Combeferre somberly. Another grapeshot sent shrapnel screaming through their side of the barricade. A piece of the wood struck Courfeyrac in the the leg, sending him painfully to his knees. Combeferre could see the horror etched on Enjolras' face.

"Damn it, then do me the dignity of honoring my last request of you!" he snapped, his tone of urgency now giving way to full blown desperation. Tears started rolling down Combeferre's eyes. They both looked at Courfeyrac, who was struggling to his feet, his musket held firmly by shaking hands. "Go help him. Get them all out."

Combeferre understood. He begrudged and hated it, and knew his decision to obey the chief now would haunt him to the end of his days, but he was out of resistance. He put a hand on the side of Enjolras' face and leaned forward, kissing him somberly on the forehead. "Goodbye my dearest friend," he said softly.

Then they parted. Enjolras, with the last burst of courage he could summon, climbed perilously up the barricade in plain view of the soldiers bombarding. It was his desperate hope that his suicide mission would surprise and confuse them long enough, and that he would manage to dodge the barrage of bullets just long enough, to draw their attention away from his escaping friends.

Combeferre raced to Courfeyrac's side and motioned for the others to follow. He didn't have time to take inventory of who remained, but he was confident that in Enjolras' absence, they would trust his leadership. Feuilly was quickly at his side to help support the limping Courfeyrac, and Joly followed closely behind.

When they reached the alley that Enjolras had indicated, Courfeyrac spoke up through ragged breaths.

"Where's Enjolras?" They all turned to Combeferre, remembering that he was the last one seen with their missing chief. Combeferre realized then, in horror, that only the four of them were left. He didn't yet know the severity of Courfeyrac's wound.

"He went a different direction," said Combeferre calmly. "We have to keep moving."

"What do you mean, a different direction?" Courfeyrac protested as Combeferre tried to help him move forward. The pain in his leg was enormous, and the blood was flowing aggressively, but his fear for Enjolras took precedent in his mind. "You just let him go?!"

This stung Combeferre right in the depths of his soul. His eyes filled with tears again, but he couldn't show weakness now. If he wavered, he would quickly turn and race back to the barricade in search of Enjolras. But that would be the worst dishonor, he thought, to waste his sacrifice.

"If you think I could have stopped him, then you don't know him," he said firmly, then he firmly retook his hold of Courfeyrac's shoulder.

"Combeferre, he'll be killed!" exclaimed Joly.

"And if we don't escape like he wanted, it will have been in vain," Combeferre persisted, hating himself for speaking in such a way. "I won't do that to him; please don't make me."

"He's right, we have to keep going," said Feuilly. "I know you would never leave him lightly, Combeferre. He ordered you away, didn't he?" Combeferre nodded, and Courfeyrac accepted his help again.

"We move on," he said with a hiss from the pain. "And we fight another day."

"For France and for Enjolras," said Joly. The grieving company trudged forward.

* * *

Enjolras's plan was, at least partially, working. A dozen or so soldiers had followed him up into the back room of the tavern. His carbine was broken and useless as he quickly found himself cornered against a wall. He threw the gun down and stood as firmly as the marble he was often compared to. As they formed ranks around him, he prepared himself for the end. It was easy for him to accept it, now that he was confident of his friends' safety. He stared at them boldly as they readied their guns.

"Wait," instructed an officer. "This was their leader. He's unarmed, and I think he's of more use alive then dead. We don't want it said of us that we summarily executed school boys in taverns. The battle is ending, so let us take him alive. He can answer to the law and to the king for his crimes, then die like a criminal, not a hero."

"Whatever you do to me doesn't matter," Enjolras began calmly and bravely. "Others will take my place and what we've fought and died for here will have its victory."

"What's your name, boy?" barked the officer.

"Rene Enjolras." He saw no reason to lie about or withhold this information.

"Well, Rene Enjolras, what others do will be of little concern to you soon I imagine. You're under arrest for high treason." He turned his attention to one of his men. "Take him."

Enjolras never broke eye contact with the officer, even as the other man bound his hands with course rope and roughly shoved him forward. If he was nervous, he never let it show as he held his head high, ready to face whatever came.

Unseen by the party as they filed out with their valued prisoner in tow, Grantaire began to wake from his drunken stupor at a tiny table. He was struck with a sudden and sad clarity as Enjolras was led out. He cursed himself for not waking sooner, although he was unsure what he would have been able to do.

He forced himself to his feet and staggered to the window. The scene was horrifying. Grantaire had always seen the rebellion ending this way: with the streets littered with corpses, a small handful of prisoners under close guard, and the people on whom Enjolras had so enthusiastically counted nowhere to be found. But Grantaire had never been so sorry to be right. He wondered about the fates of the rest of the Friends of the ABC; his thoughts went only in grim and painful directions.

But above all, he thought of Enjolras.

What would happen to their charismatic leader in the hands of the authorities? Grantaire shuddered at the thought, because there wasn't any real uncertainty about it. He'd be convicted of treason and either publicly executed or sent to toil away on a chain gang for the rest of his days. The only uncertainty was which would be a worse fate for the young freedom fighter, who Grantaire admired so much. The morning after ghosts of the liquor were lingering and the rising sun assaulted his eyes, and Grantaire, filled with fear and grief, couldn't recall a time he'd felt more sober.

Suddenly, he hated the government with an intensity that once would have made Enjolras proud. Grantaire almost laughed at the irony, for he knew that the man he called Apollo would in fact chastise him for his reasons. Grantaire, who was never moved to passion, only bitter cynicism, by social injustice, was focused and determined to achieve his new goal: to find a way to stop these villains from crushing Apollo.


	2. Promises Broken and Kept

**Here's the second chapter! A quick note: I don't believe in warning about character deaths, because I hate spoilers of all kinds. I therefore reserve the right to dispatch any character at any time with no warning. If you don't like that, just assume that there are character deaths in this (probably none that don't occur in the original story), then you can either be properly warned or pleasantly surprised. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

They had known that escaping unnoticed was a long shot.

But when they found themselves coming out of the alley and into a line of waiting police, their disappointment was not lessened. Combeferre particularly felt a sense of immeasurable shame. He'd failed his surviving friends, and he'd failed Enjolras's dying wish. They still had their guns, but it was futile considering their numbers, Courfeyrac's wound and the probability that they were all down to their very last few bullets. The officers had weapons drawn against them, and Combeferre put up the hand that wasn't supporting Courfeyrac.

"Don't shoot," he said.

"Drop all your weapons, now," said the head officer. Combeferre pulled the pistol from his belt and threw it on the floor. The others followed suit, Feuilly having to coax Courfeyrac to relinquish the musket still slung by a strap around his torso. Soon they were surrounded and ordered forward out into the street.

"Knees," ordered an officer gruffly.

"Please," Combeferre mumbled, looking at Courfeyrac. "He's hurt."

"Not my fault," said the officer, as he pushed Courfeyrac to his knees. Courfeyrac did his best to suppress any expression of the pain, but he started to feel light headed. The other three were soon down on theirs and officers were tying their hands. They were guarded closely by armed officers and left to think silently of their failure.

Combeferre felt his thoughts creep back to Enjolras, who was surely dead by now. He suspected that he and the rest of his friends would join their fallen leader soon enough, and the grief was overwhelming. He wondered about Enjolras's last moments, if he suffered, saddened to know he was alone.

Combeferre was snapped out of his trance by the sound of a familiar but hard to place voice that had joined the other police officers.

"The leader is missing from this lot," said the voice angrily. Combeferre looked up and was stunned when he saw the face. It was none other than the spy, Inspector Javert. But this was impossible; Javert was killed by the volunteer who'd saved Enjolras's life. At least so they thought. The expressions of his comrades told Combeferre that they also recognized him. But they kept silent and listened to the exchange.

"These are all we've found, Inspector."

"I'm not especially interested in them," replied Javert. "Find the leader. We want people we can interrogate, and make examples of. What good are a handful of anonymous students? This one looks like he'll bleed out before you could get any information out of him anyway." Courfeyrac knew he meant him, and made a deliberate effort to sit straighter up and hide how rapidly his strength was waning. The position on his knees was extremely uncomfortable, but the pressure of his full weight bearing down on the leg had actually slowed the bleeding.

"Perhaps the Guard has him?" another offered.

"That seems unlikely," said Javert. "Why wasn't he with them? Is he dead? I want him accounted for."

Combeferre ached to think that what they would find was a body. But he felt slight relief to know that whatever certainly terrible plan Javert had for the leader wouldn't be realized.

"What about this lot then, Inspector?"

"The jails are going to be overflowing with them before long," Javert started. "I'll await further orders. Keep them guarded here for now. Perhaps they can be put to use before we deal with them."

Javert strode to Combeferre and looked down at him threateningly. Then he glanced at Courfeyrac but still addressed Combeferre. "He's going to die without medical attention, you know," he said coldly. "I can see the thing is still in his leg, even from this angle. Infection will spread; it might already be too late to save the leg. You suppose he'd even live through the amputation surgery? You suppose he'd even want to?"

"I'm a medical student," Combeferre began. "I know all of this. What difference is it to you?"

"It might be no difference to me, or it might make a great deal of difference," Javert began. "I guess it just depends how interested in keeping him alive you are."

"It seems that's out of our hands," Courfeyrac himself spoke up. "I'm no fool, I knew going into this it might be my end. I don't imagine any prison doctor is going to be bothered operating on me."

"For truthful answers to a few questions," Javert began slowly. "I could be moved to let you all go. I have a great deal of discretion and we're far more concerned with making examples of the leaders than rounding up every idiot who was even here. Your friends might be able find you a doctor who might be so kind as to pull that out of you and operate further if needed in time to prolong your arrogant existence. Think on that."

"As if we would tell you anything," said Joly firmly.

Javert condescendingly put a hand on Courfeyrac's shoulder. "It must be comforting, son," he began. "To be so loved by your friends." Courfeyrac glared at him, but Combeferre was falling apart inside. Surely he wanted information on Enjolras. None of them would dream of betraying their chief. But they were certain that he was already dead. Courfeyrac still had a life to be threatened, a life he was in immanent danger of losing without serious and soon intervention.

"What do you want to know?" Combeferre asked.

"Combeferre, no!" Courfeyrac snapped.

"Dissension in the ranks," Javert observed calmly. "I don't need anything complicated. Just confirmation of the identity of your leader. His name and a basic description will do."

"Never," said Feuilly staunchly.

Combeferre thought back to the last thing Enjolras said to him _Go help him. Get them all out. _He had seen Courfeyrac wounded and specifically entrusted him to Combeferre's care, along with all the others. Which would be the bigger betrayal? To give his name to the police, now that he could no longer be harmed by any thing in this world, or to break the promise of his dying wish? Combeferre had no strong religious beliefs, but now he desperately wondered about the afterlife. Was Enjolras watching him? That thought brought the tears back to his eyes.

"He's gone," he whispered painfully. "They can't hurt him."

"We don't know that!" Joly insisted. "You heard them, they haven't found him!"

"But Javert's right," Combeferre started, turning to Courfeyrac. "You'll won't make it much longer. You'll die from that wound if its not treated soon. Joly, you can see it too."

"Combeferre," Courfeyrac started, his voice getting rasper with each syllable. "You led us from the barricade because it was what he wanted. I don't begrudge you that; I admire it. You let him face the end on his own terms because he asked it of you, even though I know it killed you. Do me the same honor, my friend. This is my decision now. We tell them nothing, and I'll accept the consequences of that."

Javert, in hearing this, saw his opportunity. He quietly slipped out of view and instructed another officer to tightly guard the prisoners as they argued amongst themselves. He walked around the corner, and as if a sheer act of Providence, he saw a squad of National Guardsmen escorting a prisoner. He hurried to intercept them before they turned the corner into the square where the other prisoners were.

"Captain," he greeted.

"Inspector."

"Is that him?" he asked.

"Yes, Inspector, we believe so," replied the captain.

"Well done, Captain," Javert began. He looked at the prisoner as if to size him up, remembering him from his failed infiltration of the barricade, where he had seemed far more menacing. Now he was surprised to take in how young he looked. "Not very impressive."

"Quite surprising. Doesn't look old enough to shave, let alone plot an insurrection."

"I need a favor, Captain," he started again. "I'm going to confirm the identity. To close any loopholes for the trial. Keep him back here, and gag him; he can't make any sound." The captain nodded and one of his men quickly complied, shoving a filthy cloth gag into Enjolras' mouth. He tried to resist, but was unsuccessful. Javert waited a few minutes, then returned to the prisoners, ready to spring his trap, brining with him a uniformed Guardsman.

"I've just spoken with this unit of National Guard," Javert started. "They've found a body, and we're quite sure it's your chief. Don't be foolish, boys. I'm offering you your freedom and your comrade's life for mere confirmation of the identity of a dead man. Think on it, but not too long, because I'm growing impatient and I'm sure I can find some other way to confirm who he is. Then you can all go rot in prison for a long time. Maybe not very long in his case," he motioned to Courfeyrac.

Combeferre felt a new stabbing ache in his chest, even though this tiding couldn't have come as a surprise. The tears overwhelmed him and he lowered his head.

"So you can know you're desecrating the right body in some vulgar display to intimidate others? We won't defile his name by giving it to you," said Feuilly bitterly, fighting back his own tears. In their eyes, Enjolras was now merely confirmed as a martyr and a saint. They would die defending his honor.

The Guardsman with Javert surprised them by speaking.

"He looked so young," he started. "I couldn't believe it when my sergeant said this was the chief, he only looked like a boy to me, just sixteen or seventeen maybe."

Courfeyrac called on all of his strength to glare at the Guardsman.

"Look, boys," he started again. "We're not savages. We're not talking about parading a dead kid's body around in the streets to scare people. We just need to be sure who he was, so we can stop looking, then we can match the body to a name and it'll be easier if he's got any family to claim him and bury him. Doesn't your friend deserve that?" Combeferre's head sunk lower and lower. "Now, if I can say so, from the looks of him, that face and hair, I bet there is a girl somewhere who'll be brokenhearted too, isn't there? Doesn't she deserve the closure of knowing?"

Javert smiled inwardly at his partner's strategy, but externally, his countenance was as stony and unexpressive as ever.

"Lieutenant, don't waste your time," he said gruffly. "They're too foolish to know a good deal when it's offered. Let's move on."

"No Inspector," replied the military man. He saw that Combeferre looked the closest to cracking, and put a hand gently on his shoulder. "They've had a shock, give them time. They know its the right thing. In fact, they know their friend would want them to just cooperate so they could free themselves, right? They'll come around."

"Let us see the body," Combeferre started, between a sob. His three companions glared desperately at him. "Please."

"I'm afraid that's not possible," was the reply. "Just describe him, and we who've seen it will know if your description matches. The name too." Javert took out his notebook and waited patiently.

Combeferre drew a deep breath and silently begged Enjolras for forgiveness.

"Don't do it, Combeferre," Courfeyrac pleaded.

"His name's," he started, choking back a sob. "His name was Rene Enjolras. He was twenty-two. About my height, maybe a bit taller. Definitely leaner. Medium length blonde hair. Blue eyes. When I last saw him, he wore a red jacket with a tricolor pin on the left."

"And he was your leader?"

"Yes," said Combeferre. "He recruited us and founded our organization three years ago. It was on his orders that we did everything."

"Thank you, son," said Javert, looking up from his notebook. Courfeyrac, Joly and Feuilly didn't look in his direction, but Combeferre sank lower than before, overwhelmed with shame.

"You'll free us, now!" Joly snapped.

"You're in no position to make demands," said Javert.

"I've betrayed my best friend's memory!" Combeferre protested. "I did that for their freedom, now give us what we were promised!"

* * *

Enjolras felt a strange fear slowly take hold as he stood there, bound, gagged and guarded. The sight of Javert, who he thought was dead, unnerved him terribly. Was the man who'd saved his life at the barricade a double agent? That seemed the only possible explanation. What of his friends then? Perhaps his plan to save them had failed after all. The peace he felt before was rapidly melting away, and he soon felt as mad with fear as a trapped animal.

When Javert appeared again, he listened to the exchange attentively.

"Captain, I have all the confirmation we need," said Javert. "His own lieutenants sold him for the right price."

Enjolras's heart sank. They had captured his friends. He wasn't worried for himself, or even angry that they'd apparently named him, but he knew that they wouldn't have done so unless they were coerced or otherwise under duress. Maybe they'd even been tortured. He struggled angrily against his bonds and tried to shout at Javert, but the gag prevented it, and the guards held him fast. Javert smiled coldly at him.

"Well done, Inspector," replied the captain.

"Bring him straight through then, Captain," Javert started. "The jailers will find a secure spot to keep him for now and once I give my notes to the prosecutors, this will be an open and closed case. I suspect our friend here will be relieved of his head by the end of the month."

The captain lead his company in the direction of the square where the police and other prisoners were. Javert followed behind, getting a mild satisfaction anticipating the brief reunion that was about to take place. Enjolras resisted slightly, but he was overpowered and made to march forward.

When he saw them, Joly, Feuilly, the wounded Courfeyrac, and weeping Combeferre, lined up on their knees, hands tied behind them, Enjolras fought his captors harder than he knew he could do. He grunted and screamed behind the gag and lunged in the direction of his friends. Holding him back was like trying to rein in a stallion bent on bolting; it took all of the guards' strength and all of their harshness.

The noise got their attention, and Combeferre was quickly scrambling to his feet, disregarding the armed guards, who were quickly grabbing him.

"Enjolras!"

Enjolras fought back tears at the sight. This couldn't have gone worse. His friends were captured and had been manipulated. He struggled harder against his own guards, who were growing more violent in their efforts to restrain him. One punched him hard in the stomach, causing him to double over and struggle to breath.

"No!" Combeferre cried. "Enjolras, no!" He turned to Javert. "You lying bastard!"

Enjolras tired to yell something to Combeferre, but it was well stifled by the gag. An officer struck him in the temple with his club, and he felt his disconcertingly hot blood trickle into his eye, clouding his vision as his head began to throb. Combeferre was being forced back to his knees, but resisting vigorously.

"Please forgive me Enjolras!" he begged.

"Get that man out of here!" Javert barked at the soldiers escorting Enjolras. "The jail is not far from here. Go!" Enjolras was hit again and dragged down the road. When he was out of sight, Javert turned his attention to his four furious prisoners.

"What should we do with them, Inspector?" asked an officer. "We can't let them go; they're dangerous, now they know we've lied to them."

"No, I don't suppose we can," said Javert, as he pulled his revolver from his belt. Combeferre felt so defeated and a that the sight relieved him. "Leave us."

"But Inspector," the officer protested.

"I'll deal with it," he insisted. "Go report to the station. Prisoners are going to start flooding in these next hours. Just not these four. All of you go make yourselves useful, and I'll meet up with you when I've taken care of this."

"You coward," Courfeyrac panted. He wanted to spit on Javert, but his mouth was too dry. To command total compliance from the other prisoners, Javert pressed the barrel of his gun against Courfeyrac's head, capitalizing on their desire to protect the most vulnerable member of their party. The other police reluctantly left Javert to his sinister job.

* * *

Barely a block away, when Enjolras heard four gun shots in quick succession, he sank to his knees in spite of the strong arms dragging him and sobbed harder than he ever had in his life.

"Get him to his feet," commanded the captain. But Enjolras couldn't have complied if he wanted to. He was so overcome with grief and horror, that he started to vomit. The gag caused him to choke on it.

"Quick, get that off, we want him alive!"

One of his escorts quickly complied, cutting the thing free, and Enjolras, still in a crumbled heap on the ground struggling to breath, continued to cry and throw up on the side of the road.

He wasn't sure if he actually passed out, but the next thing he was aware of was waking up in a cell.

**Reviews are extremely appreciated! I'm not certain I'll go forward with this, but if its well received, I definitely will, so let me know! **


	3. Prisoners

**Thanks so much for the reviews and follows/favorites! They continue to be highly appreciated. I'm very glad that the story has been well received so I will continue!  
****  
A quick note about this chapter: I may have to update the content rating of this story based on this chapter, and planned future chapters, but I'm unsure. I try not to be gratuitous or overly graphic with descriptions of certain things, but in this chapter, there is a scene containing degrading treatment of a character, which I think it necessary to the plot. The language is much more implicit than descriptive, so I don't think it warrants rating the story "M", but if you read it and disagree, let me know, and I'll do it, because I don't want to offend anyone. If you don't like reading that sort of thing, consider this fair warning.  
**

**That being said, here's the new chapter!  
**

Javert looked at the boys on their knees in front of him with contempt but not without conflict. He kept his gun buried in Courfeyrac's hair while he pondered the situation before him. These weren't ordinary prisoners; they were insurgents. On top of that, they were some of the very same insurgents who had earlier planned to lawlessly execute him for his espionage. This had been a battle, not just some overly rowdy protest. On any other day in his life, he might not have thought twice about killing them. But this day, just hours after Jean Valjean of all people had spared his life, he wasn't sure of anything anymore.

They were boys; the oldest among them couldn't possibly be more than about twenty-five or so. True that they undoubtably had blood on their hands, and were plainly guilty of treason, but they were boys nonetheless, and it suddenly felt despicable to even consider killing them like this. Javert strangely felt himself become the object of the disgust he always felt for criminals. His lie was dishonorable; it was a cheap and likely unnecessary way to achieve his goal. He was dishonorable. It was further evidence that he had never, maybe would never outrun the shadow of his origins. Now he was considering compounding his dishonor by committing four murders. Doing so would in this circumstances would be perfectly legal; they were insurgents and no officials would question Javert's judgement after the fact. But Javert was beginning to see it as immoral, and the idea of a disconnect between legality and morality shook him just as fundamentally now as it did earlier when he was freed from the barricade by Valjean.

Looking at these young men, broken with shame and grief, one wounded, he felt ashamed. He decided then that he was unwilling to play the executioner. He relaxed the gun and reached for his knife.

"I will fire this gun four times," he said, calmly. "As far as anyone but we five ever need know, it was into each of your skulls, do you understand?" He started cutting the ropes with his knife, beginning with Courfeyrac, whose balance was helped greatly by the returned use of his hands. When Javert finished he walked in front of them.

"You would be well advised to lay low," he continued. "When you find a doctor for your friend, tell them his injury was caused by frightened horse that broke a cart he was driving. That might help account for any other bruises he's got. And clean yourselves up first. You can't say you were close enough to the barricade to be hit with debris, or you might be arrested. If you are, I can't help you."

"Why are you helping us now?" Feuilly asked.

"I don't owe you an explanation," Javert replied coldly. "And stay far away from the courthouse or the jail. If you so much as step a tow in the direction of some fool-hardy rescue mission, I will denounce you as the co-conspirators you surely are and see to it you all justly mount the scaffold right along side your chief." The image this threat conjured in Combeferre's mind made him shudder. Not for his own sake, but because he knew that Enjolras was surely bound for the scaffold, and he'd helped send him there. Now the only possible way he could fail Enjolras worse would be if all of the surviving Friends of the ABC met the same end alongside him.

"It may be hard to denounce us after you've let us escape," said Joly.

"Or perhaps instead, I, more than fifty, was overpowered by a gang of fit young men who are already established to be violent criminals. Whom would you believe if you were a law-abiding citizen? Or perhaps you're a different assortment of escaped rebels altogether. After all, who knows your names or faces? My men have seen so many of your treasonous breed this night, they won't know the difference."

"We already have seen his talent for lying," said Combeferre. Javert slapped him across the face. Combeferre had never felt hatred like this for another human being before. It almost alarmed him, but he found relief by convincing himself that his hatred was righteous and just.

"What I do now is not because any of you deserve it," the inspector scowled. He raised his gun into the air. "All of you, get out of my sight, now."

Feuilly and Joly got on either side of Courfeyrac and helped him forward. With his leg straightened, the blood began to flow faster again and Joly tried not to reveal how alarmed he was, at least until they were out of sight of Javert.

Combeferre stood glaring at the inspector. If he had only his own skin to worry about, he might have attacked the inspector right there. His animal desire for revenge would have completely blinded him to the fact that engaging the armed Javert like this, weaponless and weary, would be suicide. But the others, especially Courfeyrac, needed him. The time for something as selfish as revenge would have to come later. So for now, he just glared.

"Come on," said Joly. "We don't have much time." Combeferre reluctantly followed, and Javert fired the gun four times. By now, the streets were eerily quiet after the noise of the last twenty-four hours. The sounds of these would-be executions were heard, loudly and profoundly, by many people in the surrounding area who had desperately hoped never to hear a gun again in their lives.

* * *

The stone floor of his cell hurt Enjolras' back, but he couldn't be bothered to move or sit up. As hard as he tried, he couldn't remember being placed here, and he wasn't sure how long it had been. The jail was loud. Police and soldiers were constantly bringing in new prisoners, shoving most of them into crowded cells. Enjolras was alone. He gave a small, grim and cynical laugh at the idea that he was considered an important prisoner. The noise of the place just faded into obscurity and the only thing Enjolras could truly hear were the ghosts in his mind of those four horrid gunshots piercing through the silence of the streets. Over and over.

The idea of self-sacrifice always appealed to Enjolras, especially when something as sacred as freedom for France was involved. He was ready and willing to die for this cause. But now, he couldn't remember ever being this plainly indifferent to his own fate. He was almost to the point of actively wishing to die, something he'd always had contempt for and carefully distinguished from his ideal of martyrdom.

He had failed in every possible way, and the price was his friends' lives. The image of Combeferre fighting against the police and being forced back to his knees as he tried to reach him was unbearable and always present in Enjolras' aching mind. Fixating on it, knowing it was one of the very last things Combeferre had ever done, he started to cry again. Deeply ashamed, he did his best to suppress the sound, but it wasn't successful.

"Hey, I think he's awake," said a guard. Enjolras glanced through the iron bars of his cell and realized there had been someone watching him, possibly almost the whole time. His shame was complete.

"He never wasn't awake, you incompetent louse," replied a gruff, unseen voice. This one sounded much older. "Is he useful?"

"Useful?"

"Not, what'd they call it," began the other voice. "Catatonic?"

"Oh," said the guard Enjolras could see. "I don't know what that means."

"Bloody idiot."

Enjolras listened with mild interest. So he hadn't passed out. It was just a waking stupor. This wasn't terribly surprising. He lied completely still, trying to quiet the steady flow of his tears. He would dishonor not only himself but his cause and its martyrs if the guards realized he was crying.

"You there!" said a voice that grew closer. Enjolras could see the second guard approach his cell. He banged the bars with his club, as if teasing a caged animal. Enjolras realized he was no more than a caged animal to be teased at this point. "Anyone home in there?"

Enjolras said nothing, but he used his sleeve to wipe the tears from his face, still lying stiffly on his back.

"Come on," said one of the guards. "He's moving. That's enough; we haven't got all day. Go get him so they can finally do the intake on him." Enjolras took a few deep breaths and composed himself as best he could against the sound of rattling keys and eventually the iron gate squeaking as it opened. He lied perfectly still until rough hands were on him, pulling him to his feet. He didn't make the effort to mount a resistance.

He was led around a corner to a small room where a higher ranking officer, sat at a desk.

"Ready to talk, now?" he asked, looking at the guards escorting him rather than Enjolras himself.

"Think so," said the younger guard. They shoved him into the empty chair and held him firmly by the shoulders and arms. He sat perfectly still, but kept his head disinterestedly down.

"These questions are for administrative purposes," began the officer. "Your answers won't be relevant to any legal defense, so there's no reason to be less than honest. In your case, I'm not sure it could matter much anyway, but your degree of cooperation could have a lot to do with what your life here is like, Enjolras. You'll be here at least through your trial. Then you'll probably go straight to the block, or maybe briefly transferred to another prison, but from all reasonable predictions, you can count on your time here basically amounting to the rest of your life, so I suggest you just cooperate and make it a little easier on yourself. Do you understand?"

Enjolras said nothing.

"Do you understand?"

The guard standing behind him roughly grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head up to face the officer. Enjolras glared at him but didn't speak. His eyes were red and swollen.

"A couple hours in the cage is enough to bring a rebel chief to tears?" he asked mockingly. "I heard your friends sold you out. That's tough, but I suggest you thicken up boy, you've got a lot worse to come." Enjolras' expression grew even fiercer. He wanted to lunge forward and attack him for speaking about his dead friends that way, but the arms holding him grew tighter in anticipation of exactly that, and he didn't feel strong enough to overcome them.

"Can you start by verifying that this is the correct spelling of your name? The newspaper people will be a great deal more interested in that than I, but I'd also hate for us to look foolish when they go to print for tomorrow," said the officer, annoyed. He showed him the paperwork he'd started before. The top line read:

**_Inmate Name: _**_Rene Enjolras _**_Charge(s): _**_Treason, homicide (multiple; pending), terrorist conspiracy, private property destruction, disturbing the peace; Additional pending. _

The rest of the form was blank with spaces for information like his date of birth, details about his appearance like height and weight, along with space for observations made during a physical exam. Enjolras read with mild interest the laundry list of tentative charges they had attached to him. He was technically guilty of all of them and fully aware that they amounted to a guaranteed ticket to the guillotine. His trial would be a mere formality.

The only charge he felt any remorse for was that of homicide. He wondered if they actually knew about the lives he'd taken, or just made the reasonable assumption. The deaths he'd caused, both directly with his own weapon and indirectly with his reckless zeal for the rebellion, would weigh heavily on his conscience for the rest of his numbered days. Reflecting on this, Enjolras thought perhaps that the guillotine was exactly where he belonged and deserved to be.

"Are you literate?"

"Of course he's literate," said one of the other guards, the older one. "They were all university students. This was their leader."

"I'm beginning to wonder if you've even got the right person," said the officer harshly. "Seems to me like just some kid they scooped up. Probably idiot too."

"Shell shock," began the young guard. "That's what the National Guard captain who brought him in thought."

"Yes, and you had orders to bring him to me when he was over it," said the officer. "You seem to have wasted my time, when you know I have dozens of these hooligans to deal with today." He looked down at the paperwork in front of his desk. "I suppose we can do part of this now, and get the rest later. Stand him up. Don't worry about being too gentle; he's noncooperative." They obeyed the order quickly and pulled Enjolras up to a standing position. The officer looked him over head to toe and made detailed notes about his appearance, at one point forcing his mouth open to inspect his teeth. Then he nodded to the other guards who quickly and roughly removed all of his clothing, underwear included, and his shoes.

Standing naked in this office, Enjolras wondered if it he had any dignity left. The officer made slow work, inventorying every scar and injury and blemish on his entire exposed body. He prodded at the many fresh cuts and bruises from the night before, and Enjolras did his best not to wince when he did. He failed to suppress a pained grunt when the officer was particularly rough examining a row of bruised welts lining the inside of his leg up to the area near his groin from a large piece of flying debris that painfully struck him early in the battle; he'd hardly remembered it until now. They checked his hair for lice, roughly pulling at the yellow curls to look at every inch of his scalp. They knew they were unlikely to find any, put prolonged the search so as to cause as much embarrassment as possible.

When Enjolras was certain he couldn't possibly be humiliated further, the officer instructed the other two guards to search, not only his clothes, but every other possible place for smuggled weapons, and they very thoroughly complied. To the always chaste Enjolras, this degradation was almost unbearable. He fought hard to suppress the reactionary shakes that ran through his whole body when they searched him.

"Get dressed," the officer barked at him. Enjolras was relieved that he would be afforded the small dignity of putting his own clothes back on, and obeyed quickly. When all that was missing was his jacket, he bent down to pick it up off the ground, but was met with a heavy boot to the stomach. The blow sent him crumbling to the floor.

"See how easy he complies with orders he likes? This isn't shell shock, its run of the mill disobedience. And we, gentlemen, are in the very business of dealing with that." said the officer to the other guards. He picked up Enjolras' coat and made sure he saw as he yanked the tricolor badge off the outside of it before throwing it at him. "Take him back to his cell with standing instructions that his rations for the day are to be skipped, water included. We'll discuss these intake questions in greater detail tomorrow. Then the real questions later."

Enjolras was pulled to his feet and led back to the same cell. He refused to let himself be dragged or thrown, so he stepped inside under his own power and turned to face the guards, still on his feet while they closed the door and locked him inside. He stood until they were out of sight, then retreated into the darkest corner of the cell and sat on the floor, pulling his knees close to his chest, and stared mindlessly at the oppressive shadows cast by the bars on the stony floor.

* * *

Finally free of the foul sewer, Jean Valjean feared that his charge, the wounded and unconscious Marius had already departed. But he had to trudge on, for Cosette's sweet sake. Marius had never moved and the trek through the filth of the Parisian sewers could only serve to cause a terrible infection. If Marius still lived, it might only be a matter of time before he succumbed to the wounds or subsequent sickness. But Valjean was determined to give the boy every chance.

Every day for the last eight years, he lived to spare his beloved Cosette any more pain. She had suffered far more than enough in her short life. He treated this promise to Fantine as a sacred vow, and in return, Cosette's presence had blessed his life with more joy than he ever thought possible. If every injustice that he'd ever suffered in his life, down to the nearly two decades in the hell on earth that was Toulon, was the price for this angel in his later years, he would have gladly paid it ten times over for just an hour with her, or even a minute of that which was most precious to him: her happiness.

Now she was in love. It was bittersweet for Valjean to know that his little girl was a young woman now, who would soon go make her own life, needing him less and less every day. But when he knew how much she loved this Marius, and saw that he loved her and was an honorable young man, he had to protect her from the grief of losing him if he could. He was confident that in time he would grow to love Marius as well, but tonight, Cosette was his motive.

"Hold on, Marius," he whispered to the fragile boy in his arms. "Just a little further." He was very relieved to have found the notebook containing the address of the young man's grandfather. That way he didn't have to worry about attracting attention from the police by showing up at a hospital with an obvious insurgent. An even worse fate for Cosette would be to see her beloved saved from the barricade only to be arrested. Valjean himself would be crushed to see the boy sent off to suffer in prison as he had been years ago.

Of all the worst possible setbacks he prepared for in his mind, one was too awful for him to even think of. And suddenly, there in front of him, when he was so close to finishing his task and getting the boy to safety, he found himself face to face with his unthinkable worst nightmare.

In front of him was none other than Inspector Javert.


	4. At the Safe House

**Thanks again for the continued interest in the story! I really appreciate all the reviews! Brief note/disclaimer about this chapter: I don't know anything about medicine and even less about 19th century medicine, so while I did my very best to make this sound authentic, it's best not to take any of the descriptions of the care they give Courfeyrac too seriously in the accuracy department. With that being said, enjoy! **

* * *

Combeferre, Joly, Feuilly and the wounded Courfeyrac moved slowly, but efficiently, and most importantly, stealthily through a planned route of alleys towards an inconspicuous apartment building several blocks away from the sight of the barricade. It had been Enjolras' idea. He sought out the place months before and paid a year's rent at double the asking rate in advance. It was to be used as a safe house if the revolution failed but there were survivors who'd managed to avoid arrest. Enjolras was careful to find a place owned by the right people. He'd found Monsieur and Madame Baudin, a couple in their sixties who were highly sympathetic to the republican cause, but not politically active enough themselves to rouse suspicion.

When Enjolras and Combeferre, after weeks of their own thorough background checking, made the cash offer, Monsieur Baudin said to them, "Boys, the less I know, the better it will be for us all." And a very important understanding was reached.

The address of the place was given to members in codes over time during the preparations. Enjolras had wanted to make it available to all volunteers who joined during the fight, but Combeferre persuaded him that even a noble effort to preserve their safety wasn't worth the risk of giving spies the location of the safe house. In any other matter, Combeferre always relished the right to say "I told you so," to Enjolras, but the fact that he'd been right about this amounted to the worst case scenario. And Enjolras wasn't even there to be heckled–the worst feeling of all.

When they reached the building, Combeferre cringed when he remembered that the apartment was on the fourth floor. The trek up the stairs would be brutal for Courfeyrac, who was now whiter than his shirt and covered with sweat.

"We've got to carry him, I think," said Combeferre to Feuilly. Courfeyrac hardly seemed to notice, but Feuilly nodded in agreement. Combeferre was, at least slightly, stronger than Joly, so the two switched roles.

"Hold on, my friend," Combeferre said gently to Courfeyrac as he took hold of his shoulders. Feuilly took his feet and Joly went in front to get doors and guide them when they couldn't see. When Feuilly adjusted his grip on Courfeyrac's injured leg, he couldn't help by cry out in pain. This terrified Combeferre, because they could still be seen and reported.

"Shhhhh," he said, as they started moving forward. "It's ok, just a little further."

"I'm so sorry," said Feuilly, who now carried him mostly by the other leg. The ascent up the stairs was excruciating for Courfeyrac but he was aware enough of the situation to realize the importance of silence, so he did his best to stifle every outburst the pain moved him to. Combeferre, Feuilly and Joly did their best to comfort him, but seeing the wound, the jagged chunk of splintering wood, now broken into several large pieces, protruding from his leg right around the knee, the way his light brown trousers were almost blackened with blood, and the trail it left up the stairs, they found it hard to offer comfort when they themselves were so horrified.

When they reached the apartment, Combeferre was so relieved that he was one of the ones with a key. It would be too suspicious to have a lock smith produce a key for each person, so they didn't have additional ones made. Everyone without one had a secret phrase to say to the landlord who would then let him in. Combeferre had one of the two original keys; Enjolras had given the other to Jehan, whom Combeferre had seen die by a bullet straight to the head just an hour before. He tried desperately to fight off the memory, because he knew that if he became overwhelmed by his sadness now, it would be Courfeyrac who paid for it. The time to properly grieve all their dead friends would have to come later.

Initially, Combeferre had tried to persuade Enjolras to keep the other key himself, but he said that would be foolish because he and Combeferre were unlikely to be separated and the keys should have the widest distribution. Jehan, with his gentle soul, was likely to make his most valuable contributions to the effort in other ways than being in the thick of the action with the chief and the guide. If Jehan escaped, Enjolras was confident in the poet's ability and loyal willingness to save as many people as possible. He wasn't bold, but he was brave; the kind of leader that the survivors would need. Leaving the other key with Jehan made good sense. Reflecting on it now, Combeferre supposed that Enjolras was always unwilling to escape the barricade if the battle was lost. He always planned on winning or dying.

"Joly, reach into my waistcoat pocket for the key," he instructed calmly. The other medical student complied quickly and efficiently. He unlocked and opened the door, and they filed in, carrying Courfeyrac who was now teetering on the edge of consciousness.

Inside the apartment, Combeferre, the only one of the four who'd ever seen the inside of it, guided them into one of the bedrooms. It wasn't a big apartment. It was only set up to comfortably house two. But in their secret preparations, Enjolras and Combeferre had decided it could house up to ten if needed. Not comfortably maybe, but safely. They had stashed a few very well hidden guns, a hoard of medical supplies, and, as much as it had killed Enjolras to do so, several medical textbooks with detailed hand written instructions for treating some expected injuries in the event that none of the insurgents with a medical background made it to the safe house. Enjolras didn't want to plan for the contingency that Combeferre would be killed or arrested, but his best friend assured him of its necessity.

Once inside the larger bedroom they gently laid Courfeyrac onto the bed. The unused white sheets beneath him were quickly red. Feuilly without having to be told, ran out the door in search of clean water.

Joly quickly found the medical supplies in the kitchen and brought them to Combeferre who was trying to get Courfeyrac's attention.

"Hey, hey," he repeated, gently slapping his face. "Look at me, Courfeyrac. I know it hurts, but you've gotta stay with me."

"Hurts," Courfeyrac murmured. Combeferre squeezed his hand tightly.

"We can't do much without the water," Joly began. "The wound, his clothes, his skin, everything is filthy. I'd hate to think of what sort of infection he could pick up."

"Let's start by getting his jacket and waistcoat off," said Combeferre. Joly helped him, but Courfeyrac resisted and started shaking.

"No," he muttered. "T-t-too cold." Combeferre put his hand to his neck to feel his pulse. It was alarmingly slow.

"I'll go find you another blanket," said Combeferre. "But this is filthy and we've got to get it off." He ran to the other room and brought back every blanket from the bed. When he returned, Joly began to cut away Courfeyrac's blood-soaked trousers.

"No, no, don't!" Courfeyrac insisted. "Please, don't!"

"We have to," said Joly. "It's just us. I know its embarrassing, but we have to get those shards out of you and we can't do it with your pants on."

Combeferre showed him the pile of heavy, thick blankets in his arms. "We'll cover everything but your leg up. I promise. You'll be warm and modest," Combeferre was relieved when he saw that he'd succeeded in making Courfeyrac smile. The reluctant patient finally relaxed a little. There was no one on earth he trusted more than these men, and in truth, the idea of them seeing him mostly naked wasn't that horrifying. In fact, it probably wasn't much more than they'd seen before back in less troubled days when they spent afternoons boxing with Grantaire. But being so weak and helpless made him feel terribly exposed.

Removing the pants was a painful and delicate process. The pieces of wood pinned the fabric in place, and the blood made it stick horribly to his leg hair in some areas. All the while, Courfeyrac hissed and bit his lip against the pain. Combeferre and Joly worked silently, until every bit of the fabric was gone, except for tiny strips that couldn't be removed until the debris itself was. Combeferre kept his promise and completely covered the shivering Courfeyrac in every blanket he could find, wrapping and tucking them tightly, but leaving the mangled right leg exposed up to the hip.

Joly reached into Courfeyrac's discarded jacket and produced something from the pocket that all of them were glad to see.

"Thought I felt this," he said, holding up the small flask for Courfeyrac to see.

"I came to the barricade prepared," Courfeyrac muttered.

"Thank God we found that," Combeferre began. "I hate to admit it, but you're going to need it. Probably more than that, but it's a start."

Joly brought the flask to Courfeyrac's lips, allowing him to take a few long sips of the hard liquor inside. Fortunately, there was a decent amount left.

"Better already," Courfeyrac said with a weak smile. It was a lie; he was still in terrible pain and even under the blankets, it was hard to keep from shaking with cold. Just then, Feuilly returned to the apartment with a large bucket of water.

"We need to start cleaning you up," said Combeferre. "It's going to hurt. Then we need to start taking pieces out and stitching up the wounds. That's going to really hurt."

"I think," Courfeyrac started to say, but had to pause to catch his breath. "I think that Joly has you beat in the bedside manner area, my friend."

"Well, just wait until he starts to diagnose which complications you have later," said Combeferre. He tried desperately to be light, because he knew that if Courfeyrac was at all aware of how serious this was, he had to be on the verge of sheer panic. Every second Combeferre looked at the leg, he inched closer to panic himself. He and Joly were at the end of their final terms, very near to becoming qualified physicians. But the task ahead of them was serious; they had to perform surgery and control any complications, unassisted and unsupervised, in an apartment instead of a hospital, and on their friend. The wounds were awful, and because there were so many tiny and splintering pieces, Combeferre worried if they would ever be able to tell for sure if they'd gotten every bit. If anything got left behind, the ensuing infection could kill him, and likely cause terrible agony doing so.

"Feuilly," Joly started. "You're going to have to help us as needed. For now, just sit at the head of the bed and hold onto him. If he thrashes, he could hurt himself."

It made Courfeyrac nervous to be talked about in the third person, but he was silent. Feuilly sat on the bed behind him and wrapped his arms around him, taking one of his hands.

"I've got you," he said gently, feeding him a few swigs from the flask. "It'll be over soon." Joly leaned his weight onto his uninjured leg, and held the right one still from Combeferre, sat on a stool to be at the ideal height to work. It was an unspoken understanding that at least initially, Combeferre would do the operating. If he needed to be relieved, Joly would be able to step in, but absent Enjolras, Combeferre was the chief, and he would take as much responsibility for whatever happened as he could.

Courfeyrac hated himself for it, but in those last few seconds before Combeferre even touched his leg, he felt like the fear itself would kill him. Despite how cold he felt, he was soon drenched in sweat, and his heart was pounding harder than even it did on the barricade. When Combeferre started, he was horrified to realize that his terror was justified. It was the most excruciatingly painful experience of his life, and Combeferre was only beginning to clean the skin around the shards; it would only get worse.

Feuilly tried, in vain, to comfort him. All he could do was hold him as still as he could manage to keep him from doing more damage. Courfeyrac instinctively struggled against him, but Feuilly was stronger. They were all relieved that he was too out of breath to scream, since there were other tenants in the building.

Combeferre worked quickly but thoroughly. Each horrible piece left splinters, and he struggled to collect each one. Once he was working on it, the wound seemed even worse than he'd originally feared. He was so afraid that he was leaving pieces of wood behind, that he eventually traded places with Joly, hoping that nothing would slip past a second set of eyes. Joly had the same concerns, and started cutting away tissue that already looked irreversibly infected. At some point during this painful marathon, Courfeyrac passed out. Fortunately Feuilly was very attentive, and from that point on, he checked and reported to the would-be doctors on his pulse and breathing every few minutes. Ultimately, it was for the best that the patient was no longer conscious.

The whole procedure took nearly three hours. When they finished, his poor leg, from the bottom of the thigh to the mid-calf, looked like a discarded bone with a few small bits of meat left for a dog, with several feet of carefully placed, but painful looking, stitches in many directions. Partly spurred on by exhaustion, Joly started crying when he looked at their work before tightly wrapping it with a clean bandage. Combeferre was gravely silent and Feuilly had laid Courfeyrac back down gently. He was in a deep death-like sleep and his soaked skin was whiter than the bed sheets.

"You two get some rest," Combeferre instructed.

"I think I'd rather stay and watch him a while," said Joly, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"What have we done, Joly?" Combeferre asked anxiously, as if his dam of stoicism had suddenly collapsed. "We should have taken him to a hospital. We're not doctors yet. We butchered him! He'll never walk on that, that, _thing_ again!" It seemed inaccurate to describe what Courfeyrac was left with as a "leg".

"We couldn't have done that and you know it," said Feuilly. "They would have never have believed the best lie we came up with, and then we'd all be in jail and he'd probably be dead by now. You two have given him a chance. One he never would have had with anyone else." At the suggestion of them being arrested, Combeferre couldn't help but trace his thoughts back to Enjolras. His head sank low.

"You know how bad it was," said Joly. "They probably couldn't have done better than this anywhere else. Not better enough to be worth the risk." It was unlike Joly to be so calculating and pragmatic. Normally, it was always Combeferre who was the voice of reason, but now he was so shattered by the last few hours, that someone else had to play that part. "Combeferre, you go and sleep a few hours. I insist. Feuilly and I will watch him and we'll come get you if anything changes. You and I can take shifts so that there's always a medical person with him."

Combeferre said nothing, but Feuilly was able to quietly persuade him to go into the other bedroom with a simple hand on his shoulder. Combeferre was developing a new appreciation for Feuilly's unshakable disposition and highly effective instincts.

Once alone in the other room, Combeferre shed most of his own filthy clothes and climbed achingly into the bed. The exhaustion and the grief overwhelmed him and he quickly fell into a deep, but largely unrestful sleep. Back in the larger room, Joly and Feuilly kept a silent vigil over Courfeyrac who seemed to be in a terrible amount of pain, though he hardly moved at all. Every so often, Joly would check his pulse and feel his skin for signs of fever. He knew that he'd have to change the bandages and re-examine the wound in a few hours, and that would be a scary task with high potential for very bad news.

* * *

Grantaire had made his way back to his empty apartment shortly after the soldiers took Enjolras from the cafe. As soon as he got there, he struggled to chase the image of Enjolras' arrest from his mind. To help, he turned to his remedy for everything, despite the fact that we was still recovering from the previous night. In no time, he was drunk again. But he still saw Enjolras. Now he pictured him in a jail cell, bound by heavy chains and wearing bruises from the wrath of sadistic guards. In Grantaire's mind, he was still unwaveringly stoic and proud, even in captivity. But the image was obscene to him. Enjolras, who was everything good that he knew he didn't have it in himself to be, was set to spend his last days, be they many or most likely few, behind bars, in a place made to house criminals. His reward for fighting for others' freedom was a cage to die in.

Grantaire fixated on this terrible injustice as the hours dragged on. He slept on and off throughout the day, eating very little, drinking enough to kill a man less accustomed to it than he. By evening, he was feeling overwhelmed by loneliness, and with that came to the obvious realization that Enjolras wasn't the only casualty. He didn't know for sure what became of the others, but he knew in his heart that they'd all either been killed or arrested. He wasn't sure which was a more dreadful proposition.

The more he thought about it, the more desperate he was to find out, but he wasn't sure how, until he remembered the safe house. He could go there and see if anyone else made it; he remembered the address and the access phrase to tell the landlord, since of course Enjolras would never have trusted him with one of the keys. His mind was made up quickly. He, with much difficulty, hauled himself to his feet and stumbled down to the street.

It was early twilight and the city was something of a ghost town. People were still hulled up in their homes, afraid of the violence from the day before. Normalcy would return, but not today. The only soul around was a stumbling drunk, resolute on his destination.


	5. Decisions and Resolutions

**New update quicker than I expected (I have a few dozen things with actual deadlines for school and what-not, which automatically translates to excellent progress on fun stuff like fanfiction, and terrible progress on important stuff). It's a little longer than previous chapters, because I'm hoping to start transitioning to longer chapters, because this is going to be a long story. Thank you all so very much for the reviews! They are so encouraging and really make doing this a pleasure! **

**Again, just to reiterate from last chapter: don't look at any of the medical stuff too closely with your accuracy goggles, as I'm certain most of this is incorrect. It happens this way because the story calls for it, NOT because that's likely how it would have gone for someone in 1832 with those injuries in that part of the world, etc. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Grantaire stumbled in the direction of the apartment building. He'd never been there, but he committed the address to memory, like everyone else had. He had a bottle of liquor with him and continued to drink as he made his way. Suddenly, he lost his resolve. This often happened when he was drinking; he would be quick to make up then change his mind about what to do.

Going to the safe house suddenly seemed like a terrible idea. What if he found it empty? He knew he probably would, and he didn't know how he would handle devastation like that. Avoiding it could preserve his denial. Until he went there, he could believe that his friends were safe and free. He could hold onto hope that he would be able to paint the town with Courfeyrac again, annoy Combeferre again, box with Bahorel again, heckle Jehan for his romanticism again, be with all of them again. All except Enjolras. Most likely none of them at all. Almost certainly none of them at all.

He started to feel tears forming behind his eyes, but he shoved them back with a long swig from his bottle. When he lowered the bottle, his sadness started to bleed over into a strange anger. He wandered out into the middle of the empty street with his arms extended outward.

"This is what it got you!" He shouted. He wasn't sure why, but suddenly his friends were the object of his anger, even though if he actually saw any one of them, he would instantly forgive him. "You bloody fools! Damn you all! I told you it could never work! You knew it and you bastards still left me like this! Why couldn't you have even had the decency to drag me out of the cafe and make sure I got shot with you! Damn you all! I hope you're all rotting in hell for this cruelty!" His manic cries devolved into full-blown sobbing and he sank to his knees in the seemingly indifferent street.

"Oh, I don't mean it," he continued, much quieter. "Please, of course you know I don't. Please forgive me, my friends."

The only one who saw Grantaire in his agony was a young police officer, who'd been making an uneventful patrol. He watched the pathetic man weeping in the road and thought perhaps not to bother him. Public drunkenness was low on the list of priorities for the police tonight; the jails were extremely overcrowded with rebels and the scavengers who thrive when a city is in chaos. The police officer didn't intend to arrest the drunkard, but he figured he couldn't ignore him altogether.

"Good evening," he said harshly, approaching Grantaire.

"Evening officer," Grantaire replied sarcastically, not standing up. "What do you want?"

"You'll need to leave," said the officer. "You're disturbing the peace. Go home. I'm not interested in arresting you, but you need to clear out of here."

"Piss off."

"Excuse me?"

"Piss off, I said," said Grantaire, falling back into a more comfortable sitting position and taking a long sip from his bottle. "All my friends are dead or about to be. I'll do whatever I damn well feel like."

The police officer realized the implication of this. The man's friends were insurgents. Suddenly, letting him be on his way was less of an option. But he really didn't want to arrest him, so he tried to ignore this new information.

"You'll get out of here if you know what's good for you," he warned.

"What's good for me would be for you pigs to not have slaughtered everyone I care about," Grantaire replied bitterly.

"Your friends?" the officer started, his sympathy melting away quickly. "You mean the insurgents? Think carefully how you answer that. I'm telling you, I want to leave you alone, but you'll force my hand if you don't shut up and get out of here."

"Long live the Republic!" Grantaire stood up and shouted. "Long live the Republic!"

"Who are you?" the officer demanded.

"A Friend of the ABC," said Grantaire. "My name is Nicolas Grantaire."

"You're going to have to come with me," said the officer. He was annoyed that all his efforts to spare the foolish man had failed. He grabbed him by the collar and yanked the bottle from his hand.

"What do I care?" said Grantaire, making no effort to resist. "If I'm not to be left alone, what difference could it make to sit in jail? Enjolras is in jail and having anything at all in common with such a man is an honor."

"Enjolras?" the name got the officers attention. His new prisoner was getting more interesting by the minute, but he was still perplexed as to how seriously he should take any of it. "The rebel leader? Were you one of his lieutenants?"

"His lieutenant!" Grantaire exclaimed. "A title I would wear with more pride than if someone called me the bloody king of France!" The officer held his collar tighter and twisted his arm behind his back.

"I'm arresting you on suspicion of treason," said the officer. Saying it out loud made it sound very strange, so he added, "and for public drunkenness."

* * *

Combeferre was soon irreversibly awake. He'd had an onslaught of terrible dreams and the idea of more sleep was terrifying. He thought of the barricade, of Enjolras, and of Courfeyrac. The faces of their fallen comrades appeared in his dreams and he was overwhelmed with grief and guilt. He lied perfectly still, resting on just the sheet as he'd taken all the blankets to Courfeyrac earlier; he didn't miss them because it was extremely hot in the room, and even in his underwear, Combeferre was sweating uncomfortably. When he'd been awake for about an hour, he decided he should get up and offer Joly and Feuilly the chance to rest. He put on some of the clean clothes that he and Enjolras had put in the closets months ago. Having been one of the ones to stock the safe house came with the perk of the clothes actually fitting him, as they'd come from his own wardrobe. He wondered about when it might be safe for them to return to their own homes, but he figured now wasn't the time to worry about that.

In Courfeyrac's room, Feuilly was asleep in a chair beside the bed and Joly was up feeling Courfeyrac's pulse. Combeferre stepped inside quietly and made his presence known.

"You shouldn't be up yet," said Joly looking back at him.

"How is he?"

"No fever yet," said Joly. "He's in a lot of pain though. I was about to change the bandage. Would you help?" Combeferre nodded and came to the side of the bed where the bandaged leg was under the covers.

"Should we wake him up?" Combeferre asked.

"Maybe," Joly replied. "I hate to do it to him, but I think he'll wake up anyway, and it would be worse not to warn him I think." Combeferre nodded and gently tapped Courfeyrac on the shoulder.

"Hey," he said quietly. "Courfeyrac, wake up."

Courfeyrac murmured something that Combeferre couldn't make up, but then he opened his eyes. The sight of them, cloudy and darkened with pain troubled Combeferre.

"How do you feel?" Combeferre asked, holding a glass of water up to his lips. Courfeyrac took a very small sip.

"Wonderful," he hissed. Combeferre smiled solemnly.

"We need to change your bandage," Joly explained. "We'll take a good look at the wound and clean it up too. Then you can go back to sleep."

"You know what I realized?" said Courfeyrac weakly.

"What?" Joly asked.

"I was your first surgery, wasn't I?" he said with a smile. "Your first real one at least." Joly smiled.

"Well, do you think we'd pass?" Joly asked.

"No," said Courfeyrac quickly, his face contorting in pain, but there was a sly smile buried in there that Combeferre and Joly could still manage to see. "No, definitely not."

"Well, you're stuck with us," said Combeferre, pushing a lock of his dark hair out of his face. Joly pulled the blanket back, revealing his injured leg. Combeferre took Courfeyrac's hand while Joly started to remove the bandages.

Joly tried very hard to remain as calm as possible as he unraveled the bandages. He knew he was prone to assuming the worst, but he knew he had to be objective now. When the bandages were cleared away, the sight was even worse than he'd remembered it. He had a pot of warm water at his side and he started cleaning the new blood and puss away from the wounds. The leg was hot to the touch, a bad sign. When it was clean, Joly examined it thoroughly and tried his best to suppress a gasp when he noticed one stitched cut in particular.

From this site, they had pulled a large chunk of wood and at least twenty splinters. There had hardly been enough skin left to close the wound. Now it was the single worst looking area on the whole leg. Joly tried to be as calm as possible.

"Combeferre," he said quietly so as not to worry Courfeyrac. "Would you please come here a moment?"

Combeferre squeezed Courfeyrac's hand and stood up to join Joly. They had a silent conversation. Combeferre took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt, just to be sure he was getting the best possible look at it. It was small, but terrible: a tiny patch of the skin was completely black. The wound had a foul odor that Combeferre noticed now that he was near it. Joly wasn't overreacting.

"What's going on?" Courfeyrac asked nervously. Combeferre took his hand again and looked at Joly, unsure what to say. But they had to tell him something. It wasn't fair not to.

"It might be gangrene," said Combeferre gently. "It might be too early to tell for sure, but you should know."

"What does that mean?" he asked frantically. Combeferre squeezed his hand tightly as Joly started working on applying the new bandage. Neither of them said anything, as if saying it would make it real in a way it wasn't already. Combeferre knew that using the word "might" was probably dishonest.

"Tell me!" Courfeyrac snapped, trying to sit up. "Please!"

Joly had finished the bandage and he rushed to the other side of the bed to take his other hand.

"I don't want to scare you," Joly started. "We're going to take good care of you."

"God dammit, tell me what it means!" Courfeyrac demanded, pulling his hands away from both of them.

"We might have to amputate," said Combeferre softly. There was pure unmitigated horror in Courfeyrac's eyes. He started frantically shaking his head.

"No. No, you're wrong," he said. "You've got to be wrong. You fixed my leg. You fixed it!"

Joly grabbed his hand again. "Try to relax. We don't know yet. Everything is very swollen and discolored. We'll check it again in a few hours and we'll have a better idea then. But we would most likely wait to do anything until morning anyway, so please, just get some rest. No matter what, you've got a long recovery and will need your strength."

"I won't let you!" Courfeyrac snapped. "I'm sorry. I trust you both. I love you, you know. But please, you can't do that! You're just students! I can't, you can't. No, I won't allow it!"

"Don't worry about it now," said Combeferre.

"How can you tell me not to worry?" Courfeyrac snapped back. "Combeferre, please. I'm not a child! I can tell you what you will or won't do to my leg and my body! That's my right!"

"We won't do anything without your permission," said Joly. This was only partly true. If they had to operate further, they would try to wait for his permission, but they would find some way to convince him, even if it took manipulation of some sort. Combeferre looked at him skeptically. "I promise." This relaxed him a little bit. "Now please, go back to sleep."

Feuilly had been woken up by the intensity of the conversation, and listened intently, knowing there was little help he could offer. Now he thought of the only thing he could offer. The flask was still resting on the end table.

"Here," he said, holding it up to Courfeyrac. "To help you relax." Courfeyrac enthusiastically took a long sip. Feuilly looked at Combeferre, as if to ask permission. Ideally, Combeferre would not want to medicate someone with alcohol this much, especially when he knew that Courfeyrac was very fond of drink under normal circumstances. But their resources were limited and it was more important that Courfeyrac relaxed and had some pain relief, so he allowed it.

"Joly, can I have a word with you?" Combeferre asked. He knew it was disrespectful to talk privately about Courfeyrac, but he had to treat him more like a patient than a friend, even though it hurt to do so. Fortunately, Feuilly was proving worth his weight in gold for his ability to calm him down, and Joly stepped out into the hallway with Combeferre.

"What are we going to do?" Combeferre asked, anxiously.

"It's definitely gangrene," said Joly. "I'm certain. We probably shouldn't wait."

"It might not be," said Combeferre. He knew Joly was always quick to conclude the worst possible malady, and as much as he loved and respected him, he wasn't about to saw off Courfeyrac's leg based solely on a Joly diagnosis. But even still, he was inclined to agree that it was in fact gangrene.

"You're saying that because I'm me," said Joly. This stung Combeferre. Normally, Joly wasn't so self-reflective about his eccentricities. "But you saw the same thing I did. He needs this. He'll die if we don't."

"It can wait a few hours," said Combeferre calmly. "We're both tired, he's miserable from the last bout, we don't have enough booze to get him through it, and now that its later, his screams will wake the whole building and we'll have police to deal with."

"You mean, wait all the way till morning?" Joly asked, nervously.

"I don't know what choice we have," said Combeferre. "Maybe its for the best. He needs time to get used to the idea. We just keep him comfortable through the night. I also think we should consider taking him to a hospital."

"We can't," said Joly. "We couldn't before and it would be even worse now that its clear he's been operated on. We'll be caught for sure, and if he goes to jail like that, he'll die."

"How can we do this ourselves?" said Combeferre. "I've never even assisted with an amputation. We could kill him! And his last minutes would be torture."

"If we don't, he'll be dead in a day or two," said Joly, accidentally raising his voice. "You know it's true."

Combeferre was silent. He looked through the open door and watched Feuilly tending to Courfeyrac, stroking his hair, occasionally helping him sip from the water glass or the flask, squeezing his hand. Almost as much as Enjolras, Courfeyrac meant the world to him. He didn't want to cause him any more suffering, but the idea of losing him was unbearable. Enjolras was already as good as dead. Combeferre, faced with the possibility of both his best friends leaving him behind, after already losing so many of their brothers in arms, understood what he had to do.

"I have to go," he said abruptly. Joly looked up at him, panicking.

"What?"

"I'll go to my apartment," Combeferre explained. "I'll get every drop of liquor I can find and some more equipment. We'll need way more bandages than we have and I'll look for a belt or something that can serve as a better tourniquet than we have here. The plan was never to do this kind of surgery here; we're unprepared."

"It's not safe," Joly insisted.

"We don't have a choice," said Combeferre. "If I'm not back within two hours, assume I won't be. You'll have to go on and make do with what we have, but I pray that won't be the case."

Joly wanted to object, but he knew he had no basis. It didn't make it easier. After Enjolras' sacrifice, the idea that Combeferre would take such a risk was horrifying. But Courfeyrac didn't have the luxury of waiting for this errand to be safer.

"Please be safe," he said and without thinking about it, he threw his arms around Combeferre for a tight embrace, which the other doctor returned warmly. He understood.

Quickly and silently, Combeferre armed himself with a pistol and went on his way.

* * *

Enjolras had no idea of the time. His cell had no window and the shadows of the bars, coming from the general light of the corridor, didn't move much. The other prisoners were getting quieter though, and the guards had changed, making him believe it was evening. He was extremely thirsty, but he knew he wouldn't be given any water until the morning when they questioned him again.

He supposed that he could beg and maybe they would give it to him now in exchange for cooperating. How could it matter? They wouldn't hold water hostage for any real information; he had to live to stand trial. Maybe they would make his life a living hell until his trial if he wasn't forthcoming with real information about the rebellion, but they wouldn't endanger his life. He hated himself for it, but he thought seriously about begging for water. His throat was so dry and sore that he didn't even know if his voice would prove equal to the task.

"No," he said harshly to himself. He hardened his resolve and cursed himself for even having considering it. Enjolras pulled himself up onto the stiff wooden cot in the corner of his cell and forced himself to reflect on his situation. He was going to die soon. He had been completely prepared to die defending the barricade if it came to it, but to have to wait powerlessly in prison until the government he fought against was ready to kill him, to go through a charade of a trial, to spend his last days grieving the deaths of his beloved friends, that was a prospect that threatened to shake his marble foundation.

In these moments, Enjolras felt that his entire life had been a failure and he wondered if there was anything he could do in his limited time to redeem himself.

Then he realized what he had to do.

All the proceedings would be public, from the trial to the execution itself; that was certain. The people of Paris would follow with interest, and Enjolras would be judged by the public as well as the court. If he faced his end with dignity and courage, he could inspire his successors. When they were ready, even if it was long after he was gone, the people would rise and continue what had been his fight. This was his last duty to Patria; he was determined to do it well. With this resolution, he started to feel peaceful again. He was in pain from his injuries, starving, and miserable with thirst, but he sat on his cot serenely, as if he could continue forever like that.

Elsewhere in the jail, the commander was annoyed to see that a young patrolman had brought in a drunk.

"What are you thinking?" barked the commander. "We've got nowhere to put him!"

"Sir, he says he says he's with an insurgent group," the officer explained, gripping his prisoner by the collar, who just laughed quietly.

"He's drunk," said the commander. "If he was actually with an insurgent group, he wouldn't have told you."

"Long live the Republic!" said the prisoner with a laugh. "Throw me in with the rest of them and leave me alone."

"Yes, a truly dangerous rebel, I can see," began the commander. "Please escort this idiot back to his home and report back here to do some actual work."

"Commander," began the young officer. "He mentioned their chief by name." Suddenly the prisoner's expression turned serious. The commander's attention had been earned.

"Is this where you're keeping him?" asked the prisoner. "I think I'll stay right here if so."

"You might be too stupid for your own good," said the commander, addressing the prisoner. Then he turned to the officer. "I still think he's just an idiot bystander. But if I'm wrong and we let go an actual conspirator, it will be me who pays for it. I have an idea. Go put him in with the leader and watch them. Mostly watch Enjolras. See if he knows him, if they talk, be sure you hear what they say. If he doesn't seem to know him, we'll put him out in the morning when he sobers up. If he does, we'll question him. And you'll be handling all the paperwork, since I'm still sure you've wasted my time with this."

It was strange how readily the prisoner followed the officer towards the cellblock, almost as if he was eager to go there.

In his cell, newly and quietly content with his grim fate, Enjolras was surprised to hear footsteps approaching. For a brief moment, he wondered if someone was coming to offer him water, but quickly chastised himself for having such a hope. It seemed odd that new prisoners would come in now, the footsteps sounded like two people, so he glanced out the bars and watched for them.

When the officer and his prisoner came into view, Enjolras felt like his heart stopped. It was Grantaire. Enjolras was ashamed, but he'd forgotten all about Grantaire after not having seen the cynic for a long time during the fight. He assumed he'd been killed or gone home. Strangely, Enjolras wouldn't have begrudged him for leaving; he knew that this was never a cause Grantaire was passionate enough to give his life for, and it would be wrong to expect that of him. True, Grantaire annoyed him most of the time, but Enjolras considered him a friend and wanted him safe. Seeing him now in the jail horrified him. He had to find a way to protect him. He'd failed to protect the others and he was determined not to let any harm come to Grantaire. So when the guard addressed him, he had to give exactly the right answer.

"Do you know this man?" the guard barked, twisted Grantaire's collar in his hands. Grantaire looked at him with such sadness and concern in his eyes. "Is he with you?"

"Apollo!" he cried. The sight of Enjolras behind bars was every bit as horrifying to Grantaire as it had been in his imagination, even complete with embellishments. "What have they done to you? I'm so sorry! I failed you!"

Enjolras wanted so badly to say something comforting or reassuring to him. But he couldn't. If he acknowledged Grantaire, they would try him as a conspirator. He'd likely be spared the guillotine or a lifetime of hard labor because he wasn't a leader, but Enjolras was unwilling to send him, for any length of time at all, to prison for his friendship either. With harsh, stony eyes, he looked at the officer.

"We're students at the same university," said Enjolras. "I don't even know his name, but he occasionally takes up space in the cafes where our organization would meet. He's a miserable drunken cynic and certainly not a part of our society. You're wasting space in your jail by pinching him."

Grantaire wasn't sure what stung worse, Enjolras' scorn, or the horrible weak way his voice sounded. Other men would have long since abandoned their admiration of someone who withheld approval the way Enjolras did, but Grantaire was so fiercely loyal to him, that even in the face of this, he was more concerned that Enjolras had been mistreated since arriving at the jail. That his Apollo was actually seeking to protect him would never have occurred to him.

The officer reached for his keys and opened the cell. "Well, since we're low on space, it looks like you've got a roommate for the evening, Enjolras. Maybe you'll end up friends yet," he said mockingly as he shoved Grantaire into the cell. Enjolras could tell that Grantaire was drunk, and he stumbled, falling to the ground. It took all the discipline he could summon not to go straight to his side to help him. He sat and watched him coldly from his spot on the cot as the guard locked the cell door. Grantaire looked at him pathetically, but Enjolras, seeing that the officer had pulled up a chair with the intention of continuing to watch them, made his face look indifferent. On the inside he was grieving and praying that Grantaire would come to understand.


	6. Brave Enough to Live

**New chapter! Thanks again so very much for the reviews and the follows/favorites! I hope you all enjoy this!**

Note, there is a chance that I'm playing fast and loose with the geography of Paris and the likelihood of where Combeferre's home would be in relation to the other apartment and the river. However, as you shall see, it is necessitated by the narrative, so please forgive me if you're familiar with Paris (if you're familiar with Paris, I'm very jealous) and find this layout unlikely. 

* * *

Combeferre walked anxiously through the Parisian streets that night. It was very late, in fact. Before he left, he saw that it was much later than he'd realized, well after midnight. He knew he had to hurry back to the safe house, but he took his time gathering all the supplies he could find from his own empty apartment. Being here filled him with sadness. Enjolras had a flat on the same floor and Courfeyrac's was also in this building. The three of them would always call on each other, usually unannounced and they would share a meal, discuss and debate a new book one of them had read, make plans for the organization, or sometimes just come over and quietly work on something, perhaps for school, just to be in each other's company. Other Friends of the ABC would occasionally join them, often after their meetings at the cafes had adjourned and Enjolras' endless enthusiasm kept them enthralled to discuss the cause late into the night.

Those days were over now. Most of the Friends of the ABC were dead. Courfeyrac's life was depending on Combeferre and Joly's ability to safely perform a major and horrible surgery.

Then there was Enjolras.

Combeferre had tried so hard not to think about him, because doing so overwhelmed him. Now he was sitting in his apartment, all the medical supplies and liquor he needed gathered in a discrete bag, and he started to desperately long for his best friend. Combeferre was safe in his home, and Enjolras was locked in a cell. It was so very wrong. Combeferre, being a little older than Enjolras, was always protective of him, even though Enjolras himself protected everyone. Now, he cursed himself for how helpless he was to help his friend in any way. He found himself in the strange situation of mourning for a person who was still alive.

He looked at the end table beside his small couch and saw, as if fate was teasing him, Enjolras' well worn out copy of Rousseau's _On the Social Contract_. It was one the works that inspired him the most, and the horrid condition of the book spoke to how loved it was. He must have brought it here one of the last nights before the barricades; perhaps he was looking for inspiration and fortitude as the day drew closer.

Combeferre picked up the book as gently as if it was a piece of priceless china. It was priceless; it was a little piece of Enjolras. One that could never be imprisoned or executed. That was a small source of comfort. And Combeferre felt foolish, but he hugged the book close to his chest and took a few deep breaths, guarding against the tears that threatened him.

"Enjolras," he said quietly. "Please just hold on. I don't know how, but I'm going to find a way to help you. I'll never abandon you, my friend. I swear on my life, I won't abandon you."

He laid the book back down gently and reverently, as if it onto a shrine, then he slowly composed himself and set back out towards the safe-house. He had to get back to Courfeyrac and the others soon.

Back on the street, he was a little nervous. It was still so eerily empty, but he convinced himself that no one would recognize him. He was carrying a bag of medical supplies, and, in clean clothes, he could easily pass for a young doctor making a house call. After all, even after the barricades, there were still sick people to treat and babies to deliver. And it wasn't terribly far from the truth. Nonetheless, he was glad of the pistol on his belt.

When he reached the bridge to cross the river, he was startled to see another figure standing near the edge. Combeferre walked forward with caution, hoping not to be seen or noticed, but the closer he got to the figure, the more his concern grew.

The man was not only standing near the edge of the bridge, he had begun to climb up the stone railing. It looked like he was considering jumping. Combeferre was torn. Some urgent intuition told him it wasn't safe to talk to the man, but he wouldn't forgive himself if he passed on the opportunity to thwart a suicide and save a life, especially so soon after he had taken lives on the barricade. Reluctantly, he decided that his conscience forced him to take the risk.

"Monsieur, stop!" Combeferre called desperately, walking slowly up to the figure. He didn't want to scare the man into jumping or even falling. He put his hands in the air calmly and set down his bag on the ground so as to appear as unthreatening as possible.

But when the man on the bridge's edge turned and looked him in the eye, Combeferre, on seeing his face, reached with pure animal instinct in terror for his pistol and took several massive steps back.

* * *

It was killing Enjolras to be so cold to Grantaire. At first, his drunken new cellmate was desperate for his acknowledgement.

"Enjolras please!" he would cry. "I know I've been unworthy, but I'm here now! I'll fight for our cause now! Just speak to me, please!" The guard watched with great contempt, and Enjolras quietly insisted that he didn't know him.

"How could you say that?" Grantaire replied. "You know me, of course you do! Oh, God, Apollo, even if you've always hated me, don't say you don't know me!"

"Monsieur," said Enjolras calmly. "I apologize, but I've only seen you a few times. I don't know your name. How you know mine, I don't know. If you are truly are a republican, we would have welcomed you, but I suggest you keep quiet about that now. We failed, in case you didn't know." He raised his voice subtly on the suggestion to keep quiet, but it was lost on Grantaire in his state.

Grantaire scrambled towards the cot where Enjolras was sitting and Enjolras thought he'd never seemed more pathetic. Even the policeman watching them was growing impatient with watching this.

"Go to sleep, you bloody fool," he snapped, hitting the bars with his club. Grantaire had caused him enough trouble this night. "He says he doesn't know you. It's better for you if he doesn't anyway. Don't you know what he's got coming his way? You want a share of it?"

At this, Grantaire grabbed at Enjolras' leg. Enjolras hated himself for doing it, but he yanked it up onto the cot, kicking Grantaire in the process. "No!" said Grantaire falling back onto his lowly place on the floor. "No, no, I can't let them do that to you!"

Enjolras silently glared at him. He wanted to find some way to tell him what he was really thinking, but he couldn't take the risk with the guard watching. And Grantaire was as drunk as he'd ever seen him; a secret language of any sort was unlikely to work and remain secret in his condition. So he glared at him, as meanly as he could manage. He wanted his eyes to say something like _I know, it's ok. I'm so thankful you're safe and I have to keep you that way. Please forgive me, Grantaire_, but he willed them to instead say _Get away from me and don't touch me. _

Grantaire eventually got this harsh message. He choked back a small cry and scuttled into the opposite corner of the cell. He had failed Enjolras so badly and this was his just punishment. Silence came over the cell very quickly, only to be broken once by the sound of Grantaire vomiting into the bucket Enjolras had urinated in earlier that no guard ever bothered to change or empty all day.

* * *

Combeferre wasn't back yet.

Joly hadn't stopped worrying since he left. It had been well over an hour. He knew he said two hours, but he was terrified. Courfeyrac was mercifully asleep, but it was almost time to change the bandage and check the wound again. Then there would be another conversation about the amputation and Combeferre wasn't back yet.

Feuilly sat next to him in Courfeyrac's room silently. He was angry with Combeferre for leaving without talking to him. He would have gone with him for protection. It wasn't safe to be on the streets, especially for someone like Combeferre. Feuilly was from the streets; he could handle himself much better than any of the students. It wasn't just police they needed to be afraid of. Turmoil in a city is inevitably followed by an uptick crime. Anyone out tonight would be in constant danger of attack, and Combeferre, from his wealthy country upbringing, was especially vulnerable. That Joly told him he'd taken a gun did little to relax Feuilly.

The two sat silently and nervously as Courfeyrac slept lightly. At one point, Joly quietly stood up to feel his forehead. Feuilly saw him grimace when he did.

"He's starting to feel a lot warmer," he said. As he said it, Courfeyrac shivered. It was a bad sign; he had chills but definitely a quickly rising fever.

"Do you need some water?" Feuilly asked. They had a large bucket in the kitchen that they took from as needed. Joly nodded and Feuilly quickly went to bring a small bucket and some clean cloths. Joly took one and wet it, then laid it on Courfeyrac's forehead.

The cool feel of the cloth caused Courfeyrac to stir.

"Joly," he mumbled. Feuilly was quickly on the other side of the bed with a glass of water to offer him.

"I'm sorry to wake you," said Joly quietly. "You're running a fever." Courfeyrac nodded quietly and suddenly thought of the conversation before he fell asleep. Combeferre and Joly had been trying to tell him he needed more surgery and he acted cowardly. He was embarrassed.

"Please forgive my outburst earlier," he said.

"There's nothing to forgive," Joly replied quickly. "You've been through a lot."

"No more than any one else," said Courfeyrac.

Feuilly squeezed his hand.

"They're all dead, aren't they?" said Courfeyrac softly. "Everyone but we four?"

Joly just nodded solemnly. He was trying not to think of Bossuet; he hadn't seen him fall, but he did see his body with three bullets scattered around his chest an abdomen. In the malay he'd had no chance to say goodbye, and most likely his best friend had died all alone and unnoticed in the chaos. In spite of himself, Joly felt a tear roll down his face.

"And Enjolras," Courfeyrac began. "What's to become of him, now?" No one responded because there wasn't much anyone could say. Joly took a deep breath and tried to go about the business of taking care of Courfeyrac.

"Since you're awake," he started. "I need to look at your leg again. Is that ok?" Remembering how upset Courfeyrac was earlier, Joly made a specific point to ask his permission to do anything. Fortunately, Courfeyrac was calmer now and he agreed. When he got the bandage off, his fears were confirmed. The patch of black skin was bigger and the smell was worse. Other stitches looked infected and it was extremely hot to the touch. But he quietly changed the bandaged nonetheless and was silent until a useless new one was carefully applied.

"Courfeyrac," he said, pulling his chair right up to the bed. "We have to talk about this."

"Please," said Courfeyrac, in spite of himself, when he realized what Joly wanted to talk about.

"Gangrene means the tissue is dead," Joly began. "It's irreversible and spreads very quickly. It will kill you if we don't get rid of it."

"And a pair of students cutting off a leg in an apartment wouldn't just kill me faster?" Courfeyrac asked, persistently.

"People come through it all the time," said Joly. "It's not like you've never heard of a living person missing a limb before."

"Yes, so I have a long full lifetime of being a cripple to look forward to," he replied bitterly.

"You'll be able to walk," said Joly.

Courfeyrac laughed sarcastically. "Oh, how reassuring! I'll be able to walk with a peg leg like some wretched thing out of a pirate novel! I'm sure all the girls will just be at war over who gets to climb into bed with me like that!"

"Is that what it's about?" Feuilly asked.

Courfeyrac was embarrassed to admit that it was a large part of his reluctance. He wouldn't be himself anymore, he thought. And the way he saw it, the life of a cripple, as a person always needing help and pity, would be a life without many of the things that made him happy.

"No," he said quickly in response to Feuilly's question. "It's a just a bad idea. I'm not letting you do it. If I'm going to die, then just get me a enough liquor to make it hurt less and stay with me until its over. Find a priest too; I have a lot of sins to confess."

"You're not going to die," Joly said defensively. "You're not going to die because we can save you, and we will."

"Who's the 'we' in all this?" Courfeyrac started. "I haven't seen Combeferre since I before I fell asleep. He must not agree with you or else he'd be here trying to convince me! Where is he? Let me talk to him!"

"Combeferre went to his own apartment for things we need to do this surgery," said Joly. Courfeyrac's eyes went wide with anxiety.

"What?!"

"He agrees with me," said Joly.

"He went back out, onto the streets, all the way to his place?" Courfeyrac started to hoist himself up into a sitting position. Moving his leg hurt terribly. "Joly, why would you let him do that? It's not safe!"

"I don't 'let' Combeferre do anything," Joly replied. "He went because he believed he had to to save you. You would be pretty Goddamn selfish if you're so determined not to be helped that you let him take a risk like that for nothing."

"Don't you dare!" Courfeyrac snapped. Joly realized he had crossed a line.

"I'm sorry," he tried to backpedal. "He'll be back soon. When he does, he can tell you himself how much he thinks you need this."

"I won't be manipulated," said Courfeyrac.

"Of course not," Feuilly intervened. He reached for the flask and offered it to Courfeyrac. "Have some more of this; you've got to be in pain."

Courfeyrac sipped it and Feuilly turned toward Joly. "Why don't you go get some sleep? I'll come let you know when Combeferre gets back or if he needs anything I can't handle."

"I'm fine," said Joly defensively.

"I insist," said Feuilly, who locked eye contact with him. Then Joly understood. Feuilly was the buffer. Not a medical person, he might be able to get through to Courfeyrac in a way that neither he nor Combeferre could. It was manipulative and underhanded, but Joly didn't care, as long as it succeeded in saving Courfeyrac's life. He nodded in quiet agreement, then reiterated that he would be close on hand if he was needed and left the room.

Alone with Courfeyrac, Feuilly took a sip of the flask himself.

"God, how did this happen?" said Courfeyrac. "We had to know it might have gone this way, but I never realized it could be this bad."

"I know," Feuilly replied. "And it's worse for you than some of us."

"Not worse than for Bahorel and Bossuet and Jehan," Courfeyrac began. "Not worse than for Marius. I saw him shot and then he was just gone the next time I looked! And Grantaire? Who even knows what happened to him? He never even believed in this like we did, Feuilly. And now he's probably been killed for a cause that didn't matter to him, and no one was with him."

Courfeyrac took another swig of the liquor. The flask was almost empty now, and not having eaten in a long time and having lost so much blood, he was feeling it.

"Enjolras," Courfeyrac started again. "They're going to kill him, you know. They're going to kill him and there's nothing anyone can do to save him. No one can even be there for him. I should be there with him. Combeferre and I, we would never let him face this alone. But what can we do? I'm a dying cripple and he thinks he's got to help me. Some allies Enjolras has!"

"He has all of us," said Feuilly. "And we're not going to give up on him."

"What can we even do?" Courfeyrac asked.

Feuilly was silent, because he knew it was a legitimate question to which he had no acceptable answer. He gave a sad smile.

"I don't know," he replied honestly. "I suppose we'll have to figure that out."

"I suppose you will," Courfeyrac began. "I won't be around it seems."

"Yes you will," said Feuilly.

"I'm not agreeing to it," said Courfeyrac. "I'm not naive enough to think that I'll live through them trying to do that here, after everything, and I'd rather not have the last thing I know be my friends sawing through my bones."

"Courfeyrac," Feuilly began calmly. "When did you stop caring about the cause? In just the last hour, or since the barricade fell? Or maybe even before hand?"

"What?" Courfeyrac asked, defensively. "I never! How dare you accuse me of that?!"

"Well, it just seems to me," Feuilly began, sitting back into the chair. "That if before, you were brave enough to die for this, for freedom, for France, for the oppressed, then you ought to be brave enough to live for it too, unless something has changed."

"Nothing has changed!" Courfeyrac snapped. "It's not that simple! Jesus, Feuilly, how willing do you think you would be?"

"Not very," said Feuilly. "In fact, I probably wouldn't let them either. But I would be a coward, so it's a good thing I'm not the one faced with it."

Courfeyrac looked down at his bandaged leg. It was the first good look he'd had of it and it horrified him. The bandages, which Joly had only recently applied, were already changing to a sickly color from the blood and puss that seeped through. Then Courfeyrac first noticed the smell; it, along with all the alcohol, made him sick. Fortunately, Feuilly recognized the look on his face and reached for the chamberpot below the bed in time.

When Courfeyrac finished vomiting, Feuilly gently offered him water and helped him lie back down. Then he took his hand.

"I don't know if we can save Enjolras," he started quietly. "In fact, I know in my heart that we probably can't. So the best thing we can do for him, and for all our friends who gave their lives, is to live so that our cause won't be defeated and they won't have died in vain. You need to try to live, Courfeyrac. It will be so hard and so painful, and maybe it won't even work, but you're strong enough. None of us are going to let you go without a fight because the world still needs you just as much as we do."

Courfeyrac was silent for a moment. He thought of his friends and was determined not to let them down, even if it meant he had to go through hell.

"Alright," he said quietly. "I'll do it."

* * *

Grantaire wondered what time it was. He was starting to feel himself uncomfortably sober up, and he was eager for the morning, when he would be released to go home and wallow in privacy. In spite of everything though, it still would pain him to leave Enjolras behind in this terrible place, but he didn't have a choice. He lied awake, staring as the officer who had been watching them fell asleep in his chair. He didn't dare look at Enjolras who, awake on his cot, seemed to be off in some other world.

At least an hour passed and the officer never stirred. Grantaire thought about trying to sleep, but found it impossible on the stone floor. He was close at one point, but suddenly disturbed by a faint whisper.

"Grantaire," said the weak voice. He sat up immediately and saw that Enjolras was speaking to him, looking desperate and leaning forward from his position on the cot.

"Enjolras!" said Grantaire, at normal volume. Enjolras' eyes went wide with fear and he put a finger over his mouth to shush his cellmate.

"Be quiet!" he snapped quietly. Then he slowly stood up and walked very gingerly across the cell to sit beside Grantaire.

"What are you doing?" Grantaire whispered.

"Please forgive me Grantaire," said Enjolras. "I couldn't let them know I knew you. I couldn't bare it if anything happened to you."

"To me?" he replied, aghast. "If anything happened to me? Enjolras, do you not realize where you are? What they're going to do to you?" His voice was pained and frantic.

"All the more reason to protect you," said Enjolras sadly. "The others, Grantaire, they're all dead. Feuilly, Joly, Courfeyrac and Combeferre." Enjolras had to take a deep breath. "They were the last survivors and when I was brought here, they were executed in the street."

Grantaire almost cried out in horror, but he knew he had to be quiet, so he fiercely bit his lower lip; it almost started to bleed. Enjolras, who was choking back tears again, grabbed Grantaire's hand tightly.

"R, you're the only one I have left," he said desperately. "I was so relieved to know you're alive. You can't know how much, but I know this was never a cause you should die or go to prison for."

"I would die or go to prison for you, Enjolras," he replied. "For a thousand years, I'd go to prison if it would help you."

"You can't help me," Enjolras said grimly. "There's nothing you can do, especially if you're charged as a conspirator. I know what awaits me and I accept it because I knew it was the risk I took since the first day I thought of revolution. But this isn't your fate, Grantaire. If you want to help me, you can live and be free. I'll have some peace if I know that you're alright."

Grantaire looked at him and felt the desperation in him, but his heart broke to know that he was right. No matter what Grantaire did, Enjolras was doomed. How foolish he was, to think that he could save him. He felt tears start to pour down his face.

"Promise me," Enjolras started. "Promise me that in the morning, you'll tell them you don't know what came over you, that you were just so drunk out of your mind that you said things that made no sense. Come up with some excuse for knowing my name and apologize to them for making a fuss. Then don't argue when I say I don't know you, and when they let you go, leave this place and never come back."

"Enjolras, I can't," Grantaire began.

"Promise me," Enjolras cut him off. "Promise me too that no matter what happens, you won't seek out danger for yourself on my account. Whenever this sham of a trial happens, promise you won't disrupt it in any way that will get you thrown in here. Same for the, the..." Enjolras trailed off, but Grantaire understood.

"No, no," said Grantaire. "I can't promise that! I can't promise to leave you alone to face that!"

"Please, Grantaire," he replied. He locked his eyes on Grantaire and squeezed his hand. Grantaire realized then that he could never refuse him.

Grantaire closed his eyes and nodded silently.

"But," he started, taking a deep breath. "You have to promise me something too, Enjolras."

"What?"

"You have to promise me that you won't give up," Grantaire began. It was strange to hear Grantaire, the eternal cynic use such a phrase. "You're better than me, Enjolras."

Enjolras immediately opened his mouth to object but Grantaire cut him off.

"No," he said. "It's true. You always have been. Better than most men. More idealistic and heroic on your worst day than I could ever be on ten times my best day. That's why you have to fight this. I don't know how you will, but you have to promise me that you will be you and fight until you can't anymore."

"I promise," said Enjolras, and with that he pulled his friend into a tight embrace. They sat together in silence for a while. Nothing else needed to be said. Grantaire's presence soothed Enjolras and his soothed Grantaire. They each had the understanding that terrible burdens awaited them, but for now, they drew strength from each other's company.

When the officer appeared to stir, Enjolras, who was far from sleep, quickly sprung to his feet and returned to the cot. He sat down and glanced back in Grantaire's direction, just briefly. It was time to say goodbye.


	7. Deep Wounds

**New chapter! Thanks again so much for the continued support of this story! **

Combeferre knew he should have ignored the figure on the bridge. He couldn't believe the improbability of who he was seeing. Inspector Javert looked just as horrified as Combeferre felt, but neither man said a word as Combeferre waved the gun.

Javert had never known shame like this. His most recent encounter with Valjean had plunged his very soul into a crisis like he'd never known before. After allowing the old man to complete his rescue of an insurgent, after freeing four of them himself, he didn't even know who he was anymore. He was so lost that he found himself on the edge of a bridge looking down at the Seine, ready to throw himself in. Suicide would always have been against his iron-clad moral code; the fact that the thought had even crossed his mind was evidence of how shaken he truly was.

And now he was disrupted by a stranger on the bridge. Worse than that, it wasn't a stranger; it was one of the insurgents he'd freed earlier. Javert wondered if God was deliberately being cruel to him for some reason. It seemed as good an explanation as any for all these horrid chance meetings he'd been party to since the barricade.

Now the foolish boy had a gun drawn. Javert almost hoped he would shoot. Then he could be free of the world and if he was found with a gunshot wound, no one would ever need know the extent of his weakness. He would be remembered as a hero, and he'd get the result he wanted, even if he didn't end up being brave enough to jump.

But what of the boy? Javert didn't know if there were any other witnesses, but his long career gave him good reason to believe that people were lurking in the shadows and probably seeing the whole thing. Criminals, that filthy race that Javert once lived to eradicate, from which he tried so desperately to distinguish himself. They would never make their presence known now, while either a murder or a suicide might take place. But in the morning, when the police found a bullet in the body of one of their own, these slimy witnesses would come forward, and likely claim a handsome reward for all their information.

The boy would be caught and put to death even faster for this murder than his friend for treason. It seemed to Javert like a waste of the life he'd saved that morning.

Combeferre couldn't believe himself. He held the gun firmly and threateningly; he was seriously thinking about firing it. He would love to fire it. He had never in his life craved revenge, but today he did, and it frightened him. He tried to convince himself to lower the gun, to put in on the ground, to throw it into the river and run away as fast as his legs would carry him, but whenever he was close to doing so, the image of Enjolras being taken away by the National Guard to await certain death passed through his mind and his anger burned anew.

Combeferre knew this wasn't him. He was nothing if not a truly tempered soul. He hated fanaticism of all sorts and always warned against it. Enjolras' commitment sometimes bordered on fanaticism and Combeferre was always there to talk him down if needed. He was the guide. The guide must never do something so rash and reckless as seek revenge. He never would have even desired it.

But all this was before Enjolras had been taken from him.

Before he'd been manipulated into betraying a man he loved more than he would a flesh and blood brother, if he had one.

Combeferre was filled with a rage that threatened to overwhelm him. If he'd known that the tortured soul he sought to rescue from suicide was Javert, he might have just kept walking. Now he was honestly considering a cold-blooded murder. He felt less conflicted about this than he had about killing Guardsmen at the barricade. He stooped to a less noble way to talk himself out of acting on this urge and contemplated the likelihood of getting caught.

As far as he could tell, they were alone on the bridge. With no witnesses, the murder of Inspector Javert would likely go unsolved. Combeferre wondered if he even cared if he was caught; after all, it would just be a slightly roundabout way to share Enjolras' fate like he'd pledged to do before. His life didn't matter to him he thought.

But what if he wasn't caught and someone else was? Some miserable creature of the streets without the wits or friends to give an alibi could easily lose his head for Combeferre's savage bloodlust. Thinking of this, his conscience had made its first breakthrough. Combeferre could never let that happen.

His progress, however, halted when he told himself that he could simply vow to turn himself in the second he heard of a false arrest in the case. He would have his revenge, then clear the innocent's name and face the guillotine himself, if it became necessary. That prospect didn't bother him much. It certainly didn't bother him nearly as badly as the very real likelihood of Enjolras facing it.

With this in his mind he took a step toward Javert and made his face hard like steel. His mind was practically made up to do it. Suddenly, it wasn't just Enjolras he was avenging. In Combeferre's angry, broken heart, he saw Javert as singularly responsible for everyone who'd been taken from him. Jehan, Bahorel, Bossuet, little Gavroche, Marius, even Grantaire. Javert was the law, the old ways they'd fought and died to throw off, that had endured and crushed their rebellion. He personified the unstoppable machine that was going to kill Enjolras, that had forced him and his surviving friends into hiding, that was about to cost Courfeyrac his leg and maybe his life.

Courfeyrac.

Combeferre balked again; he replaced his step forward with a large backward one. Thinking of Courfeyrac was the second precious breakthrough. While he stood there, plotting revenge, one of his dearest friends was waiting for him to cut away a dead limb and save his life. The whole reason he'd even left the apartment in the first place was for him. Joly and Feuilly were waiting too. Enjolras, in spite of how hopeless it felt, was still alive, and Combeferre swore on his life not to abandon him.

Combeferre had people who needed him more than he needed revenge. He couldn't throw his life away like this because he couldn't leave them. The hand on his pistol started to feel weak as his madness slowly started giving way to the familiar gentle leadership of reason. When guided by reason, Combeferre's truest and most moral self always prevailed.

Javert stared silently as his would-be assailant slowly lowered the gun to the ground. Combeferre wanted to throw it away, but he was afraid it might accidentally fire.

"I'm no murderer," he said quietly when he rose. "After what I've just been thinking, I can never again claim to be a good or moral man, but I am not a murderer, Inspector Javert."

"Be on your way then, boy," said Javert.

"No," Combeferre replied. He wouldn't be absolved by just walking away that this point. "You were about to jump. How do I know you won't as soon as I'm out of sight?"

"What business is that of yours?" Javert snapped. This infuriated him. How dare this boy speak to him this way?

"I'm not going to shoot you," said Combeferre. "But I'd be equally culpable if I knew you meant to do the deed yourself and went on my way."

"I didn't shoot you," Javert began. "Now you refrain from shooting me. It seems the score is even, so please leave me in peace."

"The score is not even," said Combeferre quickly. "The _score_ will never be even until Rene Enjolras walks out of prison a free man."

"That will never happen," said Javert. "Even without your helpful bit of testimony, Rene Enjolras is a dead man. He was from the moment the first riots began."

Combeferre bit his lower lip. "My betrayal is going to be used at his trial. The whole world will know what loyalty from me is worth, but I only care about what it means to one man."

"Your name won't be used," Javert started. "It's not in any of the reports; I don't even know what it is."

"He'll know," Combeferre replied quickly. "So when he's sentenced to one way or another die in prison, he'll know exactly who made sure of it."

"What are you even doing here?" Javert wanted to change the subject. Talking about Enjolras made him feel guilty for his own conduct.

"Showing you more mercy than you showed a man who deserved it far more," Combeferre replied.

"Out, I mean," said Javert, not taking the obvious bait.

"I needed things from my apartment to care for our wounded comrade," said Combeferre.

"You didn't take him to a hospital?"

The genuine surprise in Javert's voice cut Combeferre deeply, as if Javert had taken a knife to the spot reserved for guilt in his heart.

"We didn't think it was safe," he began. "We aren't as good at lying as you, Inspector."

"Will he live?"

"I don't know."

Both men silently avoided each other's glances. Javert eventually turned back to face the river. This encounter hadn't changed his mind.

"Leave me, boy," he said quietly.

"Why, Inspector?" Combeferre found himself surprised to ask.

"I have my reasons," was the cold reply. "Reasons that have nothing to do with you or your friends."

"I can't leave," said Combeferre steadily.

"I'll only do it later," said Javert.

Combeferre was worried now. He couldn't stay and serve as Javert's suicide watch forever; Courfeyrac had a limited amount of time that he could wait. But how could he leave now, with this knowledge?

"Walk off the bridge with me," said Combeferre. "Please."

"Leave me," said Javert, more resolutely. Combeferre took a small step forward, but when it was matched by a backward one from Javert, sending him to the very, very edge, he froze.

"I won't," said Combeferre.

"I can wait here much longer than your friend can," Javert replied coldly.

Combeferre was silent. He wasn't about to kill Javert, but he wasn't so determined to save him that he would endanger Courfeyrac to do it. He looked down at the ground and silently wondered what to do next. While he did, Javert swung his leg over the small stone railing. Combeferre snapped out of his trance and frantically took a step towards him.

Javert wondered if teetering on the edge would cause him to lose his nerve, but it didn't. He was just as determined now to carry out this plan as he had been before he was disturbed by the boy. He turned his back and faced the river, ready to make his escape.

"Wait!" Combeferre called, now running towards the ledge, intent on tackling the inspector and pulling him back over. At the sound, Javert took a deep breath and pushed himself forward. Combeferre reached the edge just in time to see him hit the water; he futilely leaned so far forward that he nearly fell himself.

* * *

Joly had an incredibly difficult time sleeping, but eventually his exhaustion overpowered him. He slept so hard and so deeply that he wasn't aware of any dreams, but when he woke up, he hardly felt rested at all. He glanced out the window and saw light beginning to bleed through the darkness and cursed himself for sleeping so long. He sprung to his feet and ran to Courfeyrac.

Much to his relief, Combeferre was there beside him, coaxing him to eat some bread. Feuilly was asleep in the chair on the other side of the bed.

"When did you get back?" he asked Combeferre.

"A few hours ago," Combeferre replied. He wasn't ready to tell them about what he'd witnessed. They had to know that Inspector Javert was dead, but it would have to wait. Combeferre was so traumatized by the experience that he couldn't dare speak of it yet. If he did, he would surely fall apart and be of no use to Courfeyrac.

"You should have woken me," said Joly.

"You needed the sleep," Combeferre replied.

"Joly," Courfeyrac started, after swallowing a mouthful of bread. "I need to apologize to you."

"No you don't," said Joly. He meant it. He held no resentment of Courfeyrac.

"I'm scared," Courfeyrac replied quickly, almost in spite of himself. "I'm scared of dying while you two try to do this, I'm scared of the pain, but mostly I'm scared of what I'll be afterward."

"We're going to take good care of you," Combeferre started, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"That's just it though," he replied. "I don't want to be someone who has to be taken care of. I'm twenty-three; I'm not ready to be a cripple. I like drinking and dancing and taking women home. That part of my life will be over after this. I don't know what the new part of my life is going to look like, but I know it could be for a long time."

"You'll still be you, Courfeyrac," said Combeferre. "Honestly, with as bad as your leg is now, you'll probably be more mobile with a wooden one than you could hope to be if this wasn't gangrenous."

Courfeyrac remembered with disgust the look he'd gotten of his leg, and Combeferre could tell by his expression that this attempt at consoling him hadn't succeeded.

"When you're on the mend, and walking," Joly started forcing a smile. "You have my word as a gentleman that the first place we walk will be the finest brothel in Paris."

Courfeyrac smiled grimly. He wasn't comforted but he was touched by the efforts of his friends.

"Can we just get it over with?" he asked weakly, at almost a whisper. Combeferre took a deep breath and exchanged a silent glance, a wordless conversation with Joly. Then he took Courfeyrac by the hand.

"We'll start getting ready now," he said. "I've got you some absinthe. I want you to start drinking it, but slowly. I have a few other things I want you to take too. You might feel sick to your stomach and you might throw up, but it's the lesser of two evils. I'm going to fasten a belt around your thigh as tight as I can make it; it will hurt and it might even break the skin, but its necessary to control the blood loss. It's going to have to sit like that for a while before we begin."

Courfeyrac nodded calmly. Combeferre squeezed his hand then went to get his bag. Joly gently woke Feuilly up, and began to roll up his sleeves. Feuilly was quickly by Courfeyrac's side. When Combeferre returned with the bag, Feuilly took to the job of dosing the increasingly anxious patient with absinthe and the two bottles of some medicine Combeferre handed him.

Courfeyrac was soon in a bit of a haze. He felt Feuilly's strong arms wrapped around his shoulders like before, and he was vaguely aware enough to take a sip each time a bottle was put in front of his face. He was frantically trying to follow Joly and Combeferre's movements as they silently made their preparations, but soon he gave up that pursuit. He didn't realize how much he was shaking until Feuilly was squeezing his shoulders tightly.

"Shhhhh," he said into his ear. "It hasn't started yet."

Courfeyrac knew it hadn't started yet; he wasn't in any pain yet.

Suddenly, a burst of sheer terror ripped through his heart when he felt Combeferre slide the belt onto his thigh. He started to frantically shake his head before Combeferre even began to tighten it. Feuilly was quick to offer him another sip of either the alcohol or one of the drugs; he didn't know which. When Combeferre did pull the belt tight, Courfeyrac felt tears of panic spill out of his eyes. It wasn't from pain, it was terror. He hated himself for it, but he couldn't stop himself.

"Wait," he mumbled. The drugs made him so groggy he could hardly speak. Combeferre was quickly up by his face to hear what he had to say.

"I know it hurts," said Combeferre gently, stroking his face. "It's going to be over soon, I promise."

"I need a priest," Courfeyrac mumbled. "Please. See if you can find one before you start." Combeferre's heart sank. There was no way they could make this happen. They had to do the surgery now; Courfeyrac needed it to be over, for his mental as much as physical health. Searching for a priest could delay it for hours. Combeferre never understood Courfeyrac's brand of Catholicism; the joyful wild child of their group always found his way to mass after a night of his beloved sinfulness. Not even the most fire-and-brimstone of all sermons ever made him want to change his ways, perhaps because he really never did anything truly wrong. He loved a lot of women, but he never hurt them, at least not deliberately. He was glad that it had never happened, but he was sure that if one of his conquests ever resulted in a third person, he would use his many resources to ensure the child's every need for life was met. Still, this free lifestyle seemed incongruent with Combeferre's perception of the good Catholic. But Courfeyrac was Courfeyrac, and Combeferre understood that wanting to see a priest now was a real and sincere desire, one that he couldn't grant and it killed him.

"No," he said harshly. Courfeyrac looked distressed. Combeferre leaned forward and kissed his brow. "Priests are for dying people. Since you'll be convalescing for a long time before you can walk to mass, I'll find one to come here and bring you communion starting on Sunday, but today is Thursday so you have no need of priest." Combeferre knew that he couldn't promise Courfeyrac he would live through this operation, but he had to anyway.

Joly came forward with a piece of thick cloth.

"I'm going to put this in your mouth," he said gently. "I'll adjust it so that its comfortable and you don't feel like your choking. It's for you to bite down on so that you don't hurt your tongue. Is that ok?"

Courfeyrac nodded and Joly slid the folded cloth into his mouth, adjusting it as promised. Feuilly held him tightly as Combeferre and Joly made their way back down the bed towards the exposed leg.

Joly was going to take the lead on this since he had assisted in two amputations during his training. He had seen the procedure have both extremes of outcomes. In the first case, the patient, a middle aged man who'd been injured in a factory accident, came through very well and recovered quickly after having his lower leg removed. He walked sooner than anyone imagined possible and was able to resume working and saved his family from destitution. In the second, the patient was a little peasant girl whose parents had sold practically everything they owned to take her to a doctor in the city for a mysterious affliction that had caused her excruciating pain and weakness in her left arm. The poorly trained doctor from her village offered no explanation, but when Joly's supervisor examined the girl and felt her now misshapen, he suspected it was one of the bone tumors he'd read about described in medical journals but never treated himself. The poor girl had been taken ill too, loosing inexplicable amounts of weight, despite being relatively well fed for a child in her circumstances. Her only chance of survival was to amputate the arm. Joly assisted with the horrid surgery by holding the child down while his mentor worked. She was too weak and too sick; she died halfway through the operation. She had been in complete agony and her screams lingered in Joly's nightmares for months. Without permission from her parents, the doctor took samples of her bone to examine under a microscope and was pleased to later proclaim that his diagnosis of cancer had been correct and he made Joly write about the case to submit to journals.

So here Joly sat, about to begin this horrid thing on one of his dearest friends, one of his only surviving friends. He pictured the little girl and begged her forgiveness for the pain he'd helped cause her in her last moments, then tried to chase her face from his mind. Combeferre, sitting opposite him, nodded supportively and he took a deep breath as he reached for the scalpel.

"I'm going to start now, ok?" he said weakly to Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac, in tears, nodded silently. A second later, he felt the knife slide across his skin. It didn't hurt yet, but it was about to.

* * *

Valjean sat in his favorite chair in the parlor, having never gone to sleep after his ordeal the night before with Marius and the sewer and Javert. His mind would not be quieted. He worried about the boy, he longed to speak with Cosette, he feared Javert. Even in his old age, Valjean wasn't sure the last time he'd ever felt so utterly exhausted.

He was only disturbed from his trance by the sound of delicate footsteps. It was Cosette in her nightgown and robe.

"Papa?" she asked quietly. When he looked up at her, she ran to him and threw her arms around him when she reached him. She had been in agony with fear since he left a day ago; the city was in chaos and he was out and about in it.

"My darling," replied the old man as he embraced her. Holding his daughter this way, even though she was no longer a tiny child, warmed his heart. When she let go, she slid a chair and sat as close to him as she could manage.

"Why did you go?" she asked. "I have been so worried."

"I had to," Valjean replied.

"I don't understand," said Cosette. "I've never known you to be so political that you would race off to join something like this!"

"Marius was there, Cosette," he said quickly. Cosette's face turned as white as her nightgown.

"What?"

"I'm so sorry Cosette," he began. She grabbed his hand. "I was wrong. I read a letter meant for you. I know about Marius and how you love him. I couldn't let anything happen to him, I couldn't let you lose him. I only ever want your happiness, I was so wrong if I ever tried to interfere with it."

Cosette started crying as she squeezed his hand tightly. "You risked your life for Marius, for me?"

Valjean nodded and Cosette buried her face in his chest. He wrapped his arms around her again and stroked her hair comfortingly. Amid all the turmoil, his mind and soul were at peace at this moment, but he knew he owed her more information, information that would be painful to her, so he reluctantly parted from his peace.

"Cosette, my darling," he started. "He was wounded."

"What?" She pulled her head up to look him in the eye. His face was compassionate but grave. Her heart began to pound. "How badly?"

"I'm not sure the extent of it," Valjean began. "I know he was at least shot in the shoulder and he hit his head badly. I took him to his grandfather's home, but he was unconscious the whole time. Cosette, I don't know if he'll make it."

Cosette burst into a near wave of tears and leaned against him again as she cried. Her father's loving hands held her gently and comfortingly, but she knew she would find no real comfort unless she knew Marius was safe.

"We'll see about calling on his grandfather later today or tomorrow," Valjean whispered softly to her. "I don't know if he'll be able to receive visitors, but we'll find out how he is." He felt her nodded silently against his chest. "For now, we will pray for him."

**Hope you're all still enjoying it. Quick note, it may be a while before there's a new update; I am about to be incredibly busy with school (I'm about to graduate college and I have to present a senior thesis that I am horrendously behind on), so I have to somewhat put the breaks on fun stuff until I get ahead on that. I try to update once a week, but it may or may not be the case with the next couple, so if it takes a while, no fear, I'm not giving up the story; you all make it way too enjoyable to quit! Thanks again! **


	8. The Day that Followed

**Hi everyone! Sorry about the wait! It might be two or weeks again for the next update, because while my thesis presentation is over (woo-hoo!), I've learned I have some major revisions on the actual paper, so I will continue to be busy for a while (hopefully very soon after, I'll be busy again with a job, but I'll be glad to cross that bridge when I come to it). Thanks for your patience and I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

Monsieur Baudin cringed when he heard the sound. His aging wife had poor hearing, and initially she continued to work on her knitting, oblivious to it, but when it ripped through the building a second time, louder and more horrible, she looked up, alarmed.

They knew that the boys arrived the night before. When they heard about the uprising, they began to expect them, or at least prepared for their arrival. In truth, they quietly hoped the students would succeed and not need to utilize this place. But since that was not to be, they were glad that at least a few of them found safety.

When Rene Enjolras and Henri Combeferre first made their proposal for room, Monsieur and Madame Baudin understood completely what their intentions were; they didn't need specifics. Now that they heard this awful sound, both their hearts sank. One of the boys must have been badly hurt. Monsieur Baudin thought he'd heard a similar sound the night before, but today there was no mistaking it. Stifled cries of terrible agony were coming from the upstairs. The only consolation to the old man's worries was that he was sure all four of the other tenants weren't at home during this time of day. They all were younger working men. They left during the day and didn't have families to leave behind. No one was there to hear the screaming and summon the authorities.

"We have to help that poor child," said his wife, squeezing her fists tightly around the yarn she was working with when they heard the scream again. "Should we send for a doctor?"

"No," replied her husband. "It's not safe. They would have done so already if it was."

"We must do something," she insisted.

"I'll find out what's going on," he assured her. They heard the sound again, but it quickly faded into a quiet sob, then they were unable to hear any more.

"Wait," said Madame Baudin. "Perhaps you should not disturb them."

"Maybe a little later?"

"I think I should go later," she started. "It would be less strange. I could say I'm coming to sweep the floor. We don't want to panic them."

"I'll not have you go alone," said her husband firmly. "We don't know who's there."

"I've met both Monsieur Enjolras and Monsieur Combeferre on several occasions," she explained. Her husband's protective instinct was caring, but it mildly annoyed her.

"And we don't know if either of them is alive," he replied grimly. "I'll knock on their door in an hour unless the shouting gets worse. If the poor boy could sleep a little, that would probably be best."

"Not shouting," said his wife harshly. "Have pity. Shouting is for anger; that's crying. It's pain." He smiled at her gently. Sometimes she said things like this, with a strange sense of urgency. Other people might have thought it an early sign of senility but from their forty years of marriage, Monsieur Baudin knew that it was always a habit of hers. He learned early that there was usually an unappreciated wisdom in her apparent eccentricities. With this, she slowly resumed her knitting and he resumed his reading. They tried unsuccessfully to relax.

* * *

The operation was horrid.

Courfeyrac suffered terribly; it seemed that none of the precautions they'd taken helped him at all. It horrified Combeferre. In his studies, he was always highly interested in every new technique to make surgery less torturous for patients. He believed that it was a physician's most sacred duty to reduce suffering. So he read every journal about it, discussed it with every professor and tried every plausible technique when he began to work with patients for his hands on training. Now was the hardest test. It was the biggest and most painful operation he'd ever taken part in, and the patient was someone he cared deeply about. When he saw how little his efforts helped Courfeyrac, it upset him greatly. Courfeyrac hovered back and forth between various levels of consciousness throughout the whole thing, but always in extreme pain.

The only good thing was that Joly worked remarkably efficiently. He was a promising surgeon. He too studied all the most current surgical techniques and the science behind them. But the task was enormous. The gangrene had spread above the knee, meaning Joly had to saw through the femur. The bone was huge and the potential for uncontrollable bleeding was high. Courfeyrac bled terribly, but the tourniquet and Joly's skills were just enough to contain it.

Twice they'd almost lost him.

Feuilly was extremely attentive like before and as soon as he noticed that Courfeyrac had stopped breathing, he shouted for Combeferre, who was at his side that very instant, desperately trying the newest resuscitation technique he'd learned. This first time, Combeferre got him breathing again quickly.

When it happened again, Combeferre tried the same technique that involved pressing his mouth to Courfeyrac's and breathing into him. It seemed so simple it was absurd, but it was the most reliable method he'd heard of, so in this moment he didn't question it. It had worked just minutes before on Courfeyrac.

But this time, it wasn't working. He could not get Courfeyrac breathing on his own. He didn't know how long had passed, but when Feuilly reported that he couldn't feel a pulse, his efforts took on a new urgency as tears clouded his eyes. If Feuilly was right and there was no pulse, it was too late; Courfeyrac was gone. But Combeferre rationalized that Feuilly wasn't trained to check vital signs the way he and Joly were; Courfeyrac's pulse was likely so faint and slow that it was hard to feel. Combeferre refused to believe that it had stopped.

Joly, down by the other end of the bed, keeping his attention on controlling the bleeding, looked on his efforts with concern. As the minutes passed and Feuilly still couldn't find a pulse, the bleeding even started to slow.

"Combeferre," he said gently. He was ignored, so he took a deep breath to brace himself. Combeferre kept up the futile endeavor.

"Combeferre," he repeated, harsher. Combeferre looked up at him, with tears in his eyes.

"No!" Combeferre snapped. "He's wrong! We're not finished! He's not finished!" He leaned back down and continued to breathe into Courfeyrac's lifeless mouth. Joly didn't know what to say; he believed Courfeyrac was already dead, but he didn't have the heart to try harder to make Combeferre stop. At this point, the bone was completely cut; they were near the end of the operation. Joly had only to close the remaining tissue. They were so close that the idea of failing now was unbearable. He couldn't stand for Courfeyrac to have suffered so much in vain, for his last hour to have been as filled with agony and terror as that of that poor peasant girl. So he waited with bated breath as Combeferre frantically went through the motions again and again.

"Wait," said Feuilly calmly, with his finger pressed to Courfeyrac's neck. "I think," he trailed off and was silent again, but Combeferre understood and quickly placed his own fingers in the spot. He felt it. Feuilly smiled and Combeferre resumed his effort. On the very next breath, Courfeyrac's chest heaved. He took a deep, painful gasping breath but it was followed by another, and another. Silent tears of joy started running down Combeferre's face and Joly sighed with relief before getting back to work on suturing the leg.

Combeferre knew he had to get back to Joly's side quickly, but before he did, he touched Courfeyrac's face comfortingly, although it was really himself he was comforting. His friend was in horrible pain, but he was alive.

"It's almost over," Combeferre said. "Just promise you'll hang on a little longer."

Courfeyrac gasped and bit down hard on the fabric, but something in his eyes told Combeferre that he understood. Combeferre leaned forward and again kissed his sweaty brow, then quickly went to help Joly.

When the stump was stitched up, Courfeyrac had fainted again, but his breathing and pulse stayed steady. Combeferre, wanting to give Joly a break, took the task of cleaning the wound and tightly wrapping it with new clean bandages. The actual leg was horrid to look at, and they quickly got it out of the way, wrapping it in a sheet. The bed Courfeyrac lied in was soaked in blood. Joly was about ready to collapse with exhaustion.

"We can't leave him like this," said Joly, looking at the bed. "To soak in his own blood for hours."

"Won't it hurt to move him?" Feuilly asked.

"Probably," replied Combeferre. "But Joly's right. Let's get him into the other bed as quickly as possible, then let him rest."

"I think the bed in there runs north-south anyway," Joly started. "It's just a better place for him to be." Combeferre was always skeptical of Joly's theories about magnetic alignment, but now wasn't the time to criticize something so trivial. What mattered was getting Courfeyrac into a clean bed.

Slowly, the three of them lifted him together, with Feuilly taking his waist and left leg, Joly gently attending to the stump, and Combeferre managing his shoulders. Combeferre wanted to be closest to his face in case he woke up in order to reassure him. It wasn't far to the other bedroom, but the disturbance did rouse Courfeyrac from his stupor.

He murmured something inaudible as they set him into the clean bed. He was drenched in sweat and his mouth was so dry that strangled every noise he tried to make. The pain was excruciating.

"W, w, wwaa," he coughed. Fortunately, they all understood and Joly was quickly back from the other room with water. Courfeyrac took a few sips, then promptly vomited into a waiting chamber pot, crying in pain as he did. When he finished, he was still so thirsty.

"Just swish it around and spit it out this time," said Joly, offering him the glass again. Courfeyrac reluctantly complied, but it wasn't satisfying. He wanted more.

"Please," he muttered when Joly pulled the glass away.

"Alright, but very slowly," said Joly reluctantly. This time Courfeyrac took a small sip and managed to keep it down. Confident that he'd gotten all he could handle, Joly put the glass on the night stand, and Feuilly helped Courfeyrac lie all the way down.

"It's over," said Combeferre, who was standing behind Joly. "You did it my friend. I was so afraid you'd left us for a while there, but you pulled through. Thank you." His voice was starting to break.

"It's all over," Joly reiterated, squeezing his hand and wiping his forehead with a soft, cool cloth.

Courfeyrac looked at all three of them with his deep soulful brown eyes; they were reddened, cloudy from the drugs, soaked and wild from exhaustion and pain. Then he closed the tightly and bit his lower lip as tears poured down his face. Joly, Feuilly and Combeferre all cringed.

"It hurts," he sobbed, quietly and pathetically like a small child; so very unlike himself. They realized it wasn't over. It was wrong of them to say that it was because they weren't the ones who had a hellish recovery ahead of them.

* * *

When Enjolras was brought from his cell for more questioning the next day, he was sure his voice wouldn't work until he was given water. That made him nervous; it was an advantage to his captors in the inevitable power dance they were about to begin, a weakness of his for them to exploit. Thinking about this, he realized how many cards they truly held.

But he held the ones that mattered. If they would question him about the other rebels, the underlying structure of the insurrection, their allies, anything at all, he would never say a word. He had secrets that they wanted, but that he would take to the grave.

Jail didn't scare him.

Enjolras had been arrested before. Occasionally a speech would get out of hand, and the police would pick him up for disturbing the peace. He'd promptly be released and back to work. But he had been in for as long as three weeks once after a particularly bad one where several extremely expensive carriages were destroyed. Enjolras was only nineteen at the time, but had already made a name for himself as very problematic for the government. Zealous prosecutors saw this riot as their chance to deal with him, so he was charged with every crime in the penal code they could remotely plausibly fit the events. He was sent to La Force to await trial and his lawyer at the time warned him that he was likely to end up in prison for as much as five or six years over it.

He profoundly horrified his lawyer and annoyed the jailers when he refused to pay his bail though he could easily afford it. He was making a point about the wrongness of a legal system that favored the rich, by electing to stay in jail and putting his resources to getting people who he considered to be more deserving out. Each day he was in, he, with the help of a worried but supportive Combeferre, paid the bail of some destitute inmate locked up for a crime of desperation like theft of food or some of the prostitutes at one of the women's jails. He also gave his lawyer double his fee to take the case of a boy of about sixteen named Julien whom he'd met inside.

Julien had four sisters, the oldest of whom, at nineteen, turned to prostitution when their father died to feed her newly orphaned siblings. Their mother had died giving birth to the youngest girl. Julien was in school on a merit scholarship and his sister was determined that he not drop out to work because he was so gifted. This guilt he felt over this was almost impossible to live with and he put his sister on a higher pedestal than the Virgin Mary. One night when she was working, a drunken police officer brutally forced himself on her. Fearing arrest, she made no effort to fight him, but he still beat the girl half to death, leaving her in so much pain and so humiliated that she practically crawled home. When Julien found out, he was out of his mind with fury. His sister reluctantly described her attacker to him, and riding his rage and some degree of youthful short-sightedness, the boy confronted the rapist and the confrontation turned deadly. Now, without a sou for legal defense, he was facing a capital murder charge.

Enjolras, on hearing this story, was determined to find some way to help him. He realized that no matter what, he had never known, and maybe would never know, true misery. How could a few years on a chain gang possibly count for anything in the face of such horrendous injustice as this all around him? This knowledge made his own brief imprisonment, with all the uncertainty it brought, incredibly easy for him to bear, and his resolve to live and maybe even die for the deliverance of oppressed souls like this boy was solidified forever. Having such a singular aim gave him all the serenity he would have needed to serve a hundred year sentence, he thought.

His own case never made it to trial. By three weeks, he'd made such an impression on the Parisian public and such a nuisance of himself that the prosecutors dropped the charges against him. The press was briefly amused with the affair, and the last article written about it described Enjolras as being "evicted" rather than released from the jail. He was freed just in time to attend Julien's trial. Despite Enjolras' well paid lawyer, he lost. So Enjolras, with a heavy heart, attended the execution as well, an experience that haunted his heart every day from then on. There he saw the poor sister, her clothes full of holes but all black, who tried so hard to be brave and stoic but very quickly fell apart and began to wail and sob like a madwoman as little her brother was forced into position at the guillotine. A young girl of about thirteen, presumably another sister and also dressed in shabby black clothes, held her tightly and silently. Enjolras found out their address and anonymously sent them a hundred francs a month via their kindly landlady. After six months, the landlady wrote to inform him that the eldest sister had committed suicide and the three younger girls left the apartment immediately with no forwarding address. Enjolras tried in vain for several more months to track them down.

Now Enjolras thought about how he was in line for a similar fate to that poor boy. In a lot of ways, he was still a great deal better off than Julien had ever been. But they both had fought for what they loved and the end result was likely to be the same. Enjolras hoped that his death wouldn't leave that much misery in its wake. Grantaire would grieve terribly. His family would have a difficult time, but they were so estranged that he couldn't imagine that their world would grind to any halt over it. Other than that, there was no one left to feel his loss.

This time he was brought to an interrogation room, not the small office. There was a table and at the table sat the same officer from yesterday. The guards escorting him sat him down in the chair opposite the officer; he hands were cuffed in front of him.

"We're going to try this again Enjolras," said the officer calmly as he looked through some papers. "Firstly, I want to hear it personally from you, who was that drunk we threw in with you last night? How does he know your name?"

Enjolras froze. He assumed that they were finished with Grantaire when they took him from the cell early in the morning. He tried to calmly assure himself that Grantaire had said the right things and they only wanted confirmation. But he wondered why they would even bother to talk to Enjolras if they'd been satisfied that Grantaire knew nothing. Also, he was afraid that without having planned a specific story, he might accidentally say something inconsistent with Grantaire's account. Saying nothing wasn't an option either though; that would confirm Grantaire was his ally better than him saying it.

Enjolras tried to speak, but as he predicted, his parched throat wouldn't allow it.

The officer motioned to one of the guards who quickly brought a small canteen of water to his lips. Enjolras drank it eagerly until it was pulled away from him.

"You were saying," said the officer.

"I've seen him before," Enjolras started. "But I don't know him. I'm not even sure of his name. Something with a 'g'? Art student or something I think. He hangs around in the same cafés my friends and I used to frequent. That's probably where he learned my name, but that's about all I can tell you." He desperately hoped his lie was convincing.

"You know what I think?" said the officer, leaning in. "I think he was one of your henchmen. I think you're lying to protect him, and if I find out that you've lied to protect him, when they drag him back here, I will personally see to it that his life is even worse than yours here. Do you understand?"

Enjolras' blood ran cold, but the officer made one fatal mistake with his threat; he talked of Grantaire being brought back to the jail, meaning they'd released him. He was out of immediate danger as long as he had the sense to hide properly. So Enjolras hardened his face and leaned in as well.

"Do whatever you want with him," he whispered coldly. "He's not one of mine; all of mine are dead. Besides, he wouldn't be the first prisoner to be victim to animal treatment in one of his majesty's hellholes." The officer slapped him hard across the face.

"Oh, don't you worry boy," he started. "You'll learn all about animal treatment before this is over."

"Whatever you do to me only validates what I fought for," said Enjolras, sitting back confidently in his chair.

"What's your birthdate?" the officer asked, returning his attention to the paper in front of him.

"22 December 1809," said Enjolras. The officer filled in the space on the paper. Most of the other information had been filled in by now.

"Excellent," began the officer. "I was afraid you'd turn out to be a minor."

"I can't imagine it would make much difference if I was," said Enjolras smugly. Julien was a minor.

"No, probably not," said the officer. "It's just neater this way." He started flipping through the papers. "I found most of this other information about you with much more ease than I anticipated. For a rich pretty-boy, you have a rather impressive criminal record."

"And yet, I've never committed a crime," Enjolras replied. Speeches and protests were not crimes; if anything standing idly by while the people of France suffered would have been a crime. Killing on the barricade was possibly a crime. A necessary act, but still something Enjolras knew he must pay for.

"Spoken like a true criminal," said the officer. "You have a lawyer?"

"I am a lawyer," said Enjolras. "I've finished the classes and would have sat for the bar this month. I can hold my own."

"You're a fool if you think that's a good idea," said the officer.

"Monsieur," Enjolras said, his mouth curving almost into a smile. "Do you really suppose a paid experienced lawyer would have more success than I at keeping my head in place?"

"It's not really any of my concern," was the reply. "Ok, how easy are we going to make this? We know there are more conspirators. Maybe all of your group is dead. But there are others. You have contacts, you had help. Where did you get the guns? Who did you take orders from? How did you pick the locations you did? Why Lamarque's funeral?"

"You really expect me to tell you any of this?"

"Not initially, no," said the officer. "Maybe our conversations get a little heated over these few days, and maybe a bone or two gets broken. Maybe it's not even by us. These poor victims of animal treatment you speak of, boy, they're not so helpless as you make them seem. Especially when they realize you've got money to extort. A few days hulled up with them and you'll be begging me to put you in solitary, and I might do it if I like what you have to say. Then of course, there's the prosecutors; they'll want to talk to you. They might be so interested in what you have to say that it could save your life. Hell, if you have the right cards and play them right, you could even have hope of parole in ten or twenty years; you wouldn't even be that old. I've been at this for thirty years, in my experience, there's no tongue that won't loosen under the right pressure. You're a smart kid, so don't be stupid now."

Enjolras wasn't the least bit rattled by what he was hearing. He wasn't interested in anything offered or afraid of anything threatened.

"I think after thirty years, it's time you saw something new," said Enjolras, this time with an unmistakable sly smile. Normally lines like this weren't his style; he felt almost like Courfeyrac was channeling him. That thought hurt, but his face didn't show it.

The officer returned the gesture and silently motioned to the guards, who roughly hauled Enjolras to his feet. "Gentlemen, I think we should see how our man of the people fares in the east block with them."

They led him out of the room in a different direction than his old cell. Enjolras, his hands still cuffed, walked down the corridor perfectly calmly. He had passed the first test.


	9. A Hard Fight for Survival

**Here's the next chapter! Thanks again everyone for the feedback! I hope you enjoy this one, although it's a little shorter than the last few. **

The guards brought Enjolras to what seemed to be one of the oldest parts of the jail. The corridor was poorly lit, but the noise and smell of dozens of men cramped together filled in a a detailed picture better than any visual information could have. Enjolras knew the implication was that this block contained the prisoners deemed to be the most dangerous. He was determined not to show any fear as he discreetly took in his surroundings. It seemed that the guards deliberately set an excruciatingly slow pace. Enjolras was well aware of their motives; they wanted him to be afraid. He was unwilling to be afraid, so he quietly tried to gather information about his predicament.

These cells were a bit larger than the one he'd spent the previous night in, but they each held four men, making them seem incredibly cramped. Some prisoners were completely disinterested in the sight of guards escorting a new inmate, but many aggressively leaned against the bars and heckled Enjolras as he walked by; he took great care not to acknowledge them. Since all these inmates were being held pre-trial, they didn't wear uniforms and Enjolras realized that his clothes would make him stand out. Most of the other prisoners were dressed in some varying degree of rags. Enjolras' clothes had taken a beating from the fight, but it was still one of his nicer suits as he never changed from Lamarque's funeral. Now he stood out as rich and this would likely cause him problems he quickly realized. It was one minor but important detail he'd failed to plan for.

"Look at the clothes on that one! Don't see many bourgeois types in here!"

"Alms for the poor?" one pleaded sarcastically in response. His hand was extended so far out that he almost succeeded in grabbed Enjolras. One of the guards quickly hit his arm with club, and it shrank back into the darkness. Enjolras, though he had been the target of the initial ridicule, was horrified by the brutality and how much the guard seemed to enjoy doing it.

"You one of them rebel boys?" one voice called. "Bloody good job you did!" This was answered with an uproar of laughter. "Long live the Republic!"

"You kill anyone, pretty boy?"

"I bet he has!"

"No way," one began. "Just one of those little brats off playing French Revolution in the street!"

Somehow, this comment stung Enjolras worse than he knew it should have. His worst nightmare would be that his friends' efforts and sacrifice would be remembered in such a frivolous light. To him, the revolution was holy. But if the world dismissed it as short-sighted child's play, then, he truly failed.

"He sure is a pretty one," began a more menacing sounding voice.

"Could pass for a girl in a pinch, I think," replied another.

"I'll have to pay you a visit soon, gorgeous."

Enjolras repressed a shudder as best he could. The guards soon stopped in front of a cell. There were three prisoners inside. One was leaning against the bars to size up Enjolras. This one, tall and underfed, looked to be about eighteen, and he had an arrogant expression on his face which made it seem that jail suited him the way monasteries suit monks. He smiled slyly at Enjolras when the guards stopped in from of the bars. Of his other cell mates, one could hardly be seen in the shadows where he stood casually observing from against the wall; as far as Enjolras could tell, this man was huge. The third occupant was a frail looking old man kneeling at the foot of one of the wooden cots, quietly praying the rosary in a language that certainly wasn't French. Despite his education, Enjolras didn't have the talent for languages that Marius did.

"Get back, inmate," the guard barked at the young man leaning on the bars.

"You mean he's ours!?" the prisoner exclaimed sarcastically, ignoring the order.

"You'll back up now, or I can get the leg irons," the guard threatened. With a laugh, the prisoner complied. The other guard produced a key from his belt and started to open the door. When the barred door opened, they roughly shoved Enjolras inside, and in one fluid motion, they closed the cell with a miserable clanging sound.

It certainly wasn't the first time Enjolras had been locked in a jail cell, but something about the sound this time particularly unnerved him. He felt an onslaught of hopelessness that truthfully had far more to do with the loss of his friends than the loss of his freedom. The keys made a hideous noise in the lock.

"Hands," the guard instructed. Enjolras slowly complied without looking in any particular direction. When he slid his cuffed hands through the opening in the bars, one of the guards grabbed his wrists and yanked him forward.

"Listen boy," he whispered. "These are bloody animals they've seen fit to put you with. Everyone on this block has been here before and most are career criminals who can't be sent to the scaffold fast enough if you ask me. I don't know why I'm sympathetic, because I'm sure you deserve it for your rabble-rousing, but for your own foolish good, keep your head down. If they try to get money off you, do your damn-well best to get it to them. You can afford it and you probably won't have much further need of it." Then he undid the cuffs, and he and his partner were quickly on their way back through the noisy corridor.

"Keep quiet, you bloody dogs!" he shouted as his partner banged on a few cells with his club.

Enjolras leaned against the bars absentmindedly until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Caught off guard, he was suddenly grabbed by the collar and forced to turn around. The young prisoner was surprisingly strong, and Enjolras was too stunned to fight back effectively. In an instant, he felt a crude, jagged object pressed heavily against his throat. He instinctively leaned as heavily back against the bars as he could manage, but cursed himself for displaying any weakness. The other prisoner just glared at him viscously and pressed the makeshift knife as hard up against his skin as he could without quite drawing blood.

"So what's a pretty boy like you doing here with the likes of us?" The knife dug deeper, this time breaking the skin slightly and Enjolras felt the warm liquid seep down his neck from the spot where the tip was. He realized that if he so much as breathed too heavily, his throat could be slit. He figured that this boy wouldn't kill him deliberately because he it would hard to extort or otherwise profit from a dead man, but he was probably reckless enough to do it accidentally. Enjolras didn't really care what happened to him, except for his vow to Grantaire that he would fight until he couldn't anymore, and his vow to Patria that he would bravely be an example to others. He could achieve neither of these ends if he was murdered by an unbalanced cellmate on his second day of imprisonment. So he had to be careful.

"Let me guess, it's all a misunderstanding and you're totally innocent," the prisoner pressed on, his face right in Enjolras'. "And it will be sorted out as soon as your father hears about it? Well, pretty boy, I'll tell you what, I'm not. I'm here because I killed my first man before I was fifteen. My first robbery way before that. And I'm good at it. They've never been able to pin a murder on me; they're gonna try with this one now, but they won't succeed. I slip in and out of here like a hotel. I could break out of here any minute if I got bored, but I stick around until the trial, just because it's good sport. I'm looking at you kid, and I can tell you're no criminal. I heard about your little riots and I'm not impressed. Don't think I won't kill you if it suits me for some reason, you hear me?"

"I killed a lot of men during my little riots," Enjolras said quietly. He realized there were two ways he could go about this: either meekly hope not to incur any wrath, or establish himself as someone who could hold his own. Maybe it wasn't the wisest decision he ever made, but in an instant, he chose the latter.

Then, in a quick motion that Bahorel had taught him a few years ago, he seized control of the other prisoner's knife and soon reversed their positions, pinning him against the bars threateningly. He hoped this gamble would work. To say he'd killed a lot of men was probably an exaggeration, but if he could convince this other prisoner he was dangerous, maybe he would be left alone. He dug the side of his forearm into his foe's neck in a barehanded choke hold, then with his other hand, threw the knife out through the bars into the corridor. It was a crude example of prison handiwork that had surely taken the young man weeks to forge; Enjolras figured he was better off if the thing was out of the cell, rather than having to fight to keep control over it.

"I've got police, National Guard, and civilian blood all over my hands and absolutely nothing to lose. Since I'm not a jail-breaking, slinking coward who won't face the consequences of his actions, I know I'm not going anywhere from here but the _Abbey of Monte à Regret._" He'd heard Gavroche use dozens of crude gamin slang terms for the scaffold and was glad to have remembered one now in hopes that it would add the needed touch of authenticity to his performance.

"I've been a murderous worm's executioner before. Perhaps you should take care not to give me reason to play the part again before the real one comes for me." He almost lost his nerve making this last threat. As necessary as he saw it, killing Le Cabuc haunted his conscience. Enjolras never wanted to kill again; he would far rather die himself. His own words alarmed him; no human, no matter how hideous his crimes, was a "murderous worm" in Enjolras' eyes. This was the emptiest of his threats, but he had to be convincing to save his own hide long enough to finish his work.

To his horror, the man under his grip just smiled slyly. The next moment, he felt enormous hands grab him from behind and drag him back into the darker corner of cell. Soon, heavy fists were pummeling him in the face and on the torso. The blows kept coming ceaselessly. Enjolras' eyes weren't well adjusted to the dark, so he had an incredibly difficult time dodging them, and never once succeeded in landing a counterstrike against his assailant. His mouth was starting to fill with blood after the seemingly iron fist connected with his jaw and he felt a tooth break. One more hit to the side of the head and he started to feel dizzy.

In the heat of the chaos, Enjolras failed to account for how weak he really was. He was still battered from the barricade, he hadn't eaten or slept since the night before the funeral, and he had only had a small sip of water since arriving at the jail. When the large man grabbed his left arm and twisted it so hard that Enjolras felt and heard his wrist break, he staggered on his feet for just a few seconds before collapsing in a heap on the stone floor. He stayed conscious for a few more seconds as he felt two pairs of feet kicking him brutally from both sides. Then darkness kindly set in and reprieved him of further punishment.

* * *

Monsieur Gillenormand was in hell. When Marius was brought to his house the previous night from the barricade, he was sure that his beloved grandson was dead. The boy had lived through the night but barely. Now the old man sat at his bedside, gently dabbing his pale forehead with a cloth, being careful of the cuts. The wound in Marius' shoulder was already infected and he was suffering from a raging fever. The doctor wasn't optimistic.

"Monsieur," he had said before leaving in the early morning. "I think the best thing is to stay by him and keep him comfortable. I'm so sorry, but it probably won't be long. I'll be back every few hours between my other rounds." The hopelessness was devastating. Gillenormand had lived an astoundingly long life, but he had already outlived one of his children. Now his Marius was dying, and there was so much that needed to be said. He wanted to beg Marius' forgiveness for his role in their estrangement. The only thing worse than the boy dying was him dying without knowing how loved he was.

"Oh, I'm an old fool," he muttered at Marius' bedside. "Please forgive me. Your whole life, I kept you away from your father. He loved you as much as I did, and now you're going to go be with him and leave me behind. I suppose I deserve that. I was wrong, so very wrong." He broke down into unintelligible sobs and tightly grabbed the boy's seemingly fragile hand. Marius did not stir.

Suddenly, he heard a tap on the door.

"Father," said his spinster daughter behind the door. "There is a gentleman and his daughter at the door asking after Marius."

"Leave me alone!" Gillenormand cried. "Tell the vultures he's dying and I won't have his peace disturbed."

Mademoiselle Gillenormand was taken aback. No matter how callous her father always was, she never failed to be surprised and mildly offended by his mannerisms. She quietly closed the door and began to make her way down the hallway to tell the visitors off.

After she was gone, the old man at Marius' bedside had an epiphany. He remembered that Marius told him about a girl before. During one of their last conversations, he told him about a young lady called Cosette. He was in love with her and wanted to marry her. Monsieur Gillenormand scoffed at him and they parted bitterly.

The girl coming to visit with her father must be Marius' Cosette.

Monsieur Gillenormand was on his feet in an instant. He leaned over Marius and kissed him on the forehead. "I'll be right back, son. I'm going to bring back Cosette. Your Cosette, she's here. You'll hold on for her, won't you? Oh, of course you will!" And with that, the old man scurried out the door as fast as he could manage.

In the parlor, Marius' aunt was talking to an white-haired gentleman with a kind face who tightly held onto a beautiful young girl. She was crying quietly.

"I'm so sorry," she said with a highly artificial tone of sadness. "But Monsieur Marius cannot receive visitors. I'm afraid he won't be with us much longer, dear."

The girl leaned heavily into her father's side as the tears flowed freely. He stroked her shoulder. She took a painful breath, then tried to speak. "Please just let me say goodbye."

"I'm sorry," the aunt repeated.

"Mademoiselle," began her father. "Can I please speak to Monsieur Gillenormand?"

"Yes!" cried a voice from the top of the stairs. The grandfather dashed down the stairs as fast as his old legs would carry him. He turned his attention to his daughter. "You foolish woman! You were going to tell Marius' Cosette to leave! No, she must be at his side! She could help him pull through! How dare you try to send her away!"

"But Father, I," his daughter tried to object, but was quickly cut off as Monsieur Gillenormand reached them in the parlor.

"Oh, bless you Monsieur!" he cried when he greeted Valjean and recognized him as the man who carried Marius in the night before. "You've saved him a second time by bringing her here! I will be in debt forever! It makes sense now! You're the father of Cosette and the savior of Marius! You must be a saint!"

Cosette was still crying, but a smile spread to her lips. Her father was a saint.

"How is he, Monsieur?" Valjean asked.

"Not well," said Gillenormand honestly. "The doctor thinks he won't live, but I think Cosette will change things! What a beauty she is! No wonder my Marius is so in love you, my dear!"

Valjean was concerned by the old man's optimism. It was touching that he was so glad to see Cosette and he was sympathetic to his grief, but Valjean knew that her presence wouldn't stop death if it was truly upon Marius. He was worried that if he died, she would be crushed. He always wanted to protect her from the harsher realities of the world because of how much she suffered so early in her life. But there was no protection from this, so the best he could do was to help prepare her for the worst outcome.

"Can I see him, Monsieur?" she said timidly.

"Of course! Why, I insist on it," he said. "Come with me. You too, Monsieur...?" He suddenly realized he didn't know the name of his grandson's rescuer and felt terrible shame over this.

"Fauchelevent," replied Valjean extending a hand to shake. It was eagerly accepted by the grandfather. "Ultimus Fauchelevent."

"I am at your service Monsieur Fauchelevent," Gillenormand replied. Valjean and Cosette somberly followed him up the stairs to Marius' room. Cosette knew to do so was bad manners, but when she saw him, she was too overwhelmed to care; she ran to his side and grabbed his hand.

"Oh my darling!" she exclaimed, crying harder. "Please come back to me, my darling. I don't think I could bare to be without you." Valjean was saddened by the sight of the boy. He looked almost worse than he had before, except that he was clean now. Valjean prayed silently as a servant brought over chairs for all three of them to sit at Marius' bedside.

Cosette never let go of his hand, as the three sat in silent vigil. Marius never stirred.

"Do you suppose any of his friends made it?" Valjean mused. When he fled the barricade with Marius in tow, it looked very bad. So many had already been killed. That morning he read the papers with interest, but they focused more on those insurgents who had been captured. Valjean didn't know many names of the boys who'd been there, so the accounts were unhelpful.

"I don't know his friends," said Monsieur Gillenormand. "A bunch of rabble-rousing villains who pulled him into this mess! If they've all been shot, good riddance!" This troubled Valjean. He didn't view them this way.

"Monsieur," he began. "With all due respect, I'm sure that's not entirely fair."

"I hardly even know him anymore," said the grandfather, burying his face in his hands. "Now he's going to die thinking I despised him!"

"Monsieur," Valjean began again. "Marius carried a notebook with this address asking to be brought here. He loves you, and he knows you love him. We need to have hope that he'll pull through, but if he doesn't, you at least must know that."

Gillenormand didn't reply because he could never articulate such a sentiment, but Valjean's words were comforting. But he didn't have to; Valjean understood. The three didn't speak much, but Cosette and Valjean stayed for hours. Marius occasionally moaned in his sleep but was never lucid enough to realize who was with him. He seemed to be in pain, which distressed Cosette terribly.

When it started to get dark, Valjean gently coaxed Cosette to come home with him.

"Papa, I want to stay with him," she pleaded weakly. She was doubtful that if she left him, he would even be there in the morning.

"He needs to rest," said Valjean. This wasn't a strong argument, but Cosette didn't protest again. "I promise we'll come back if Monsieur Gillenormand permits it."

"Of course," the grandfather interjected. So they left together, under a cloud of sadness. On their carriage ride home, Cosette buried her face into Valjean's embrace and cried more. He wrapped his strong arms around her and tried to help her hurt less.

"I love you so much, Papa," she said quietly. He replied with a kiss on her forehead. Now he finally understood. Just because she loved Marius didn't mean she loved him any less. Even after so many years, she still had so much to teach him about love. It filled him with guilt and sadness that Marius' suffering was what prompted this revelation, and he continually prayed that the boy would survive. But after what he'd seen that day, it was a hard hope to cling to.


	10. A Visit from the Landlord and Lady

**So sorry for the long delay in posting! As it (predictably) happened, the end of the school year was a chaotic mess of writing, rewriting, reading, moving out of my place, and graduating somewhere in there. I'm also delighted to have found a job, so I'm officially part of the real world now. But now that homework isn't really a thing anymore, I think I will be able to move back into the consistent model of posting weekly. This chapter is a little shorter than others, but I hope you enjoy it! Please review; I just love the reviews and thank you very sincerely for them! Enjoy: **

* * *

Joly studied the cut on his arm anxiously. He had completely failed to take any inventory of his own injuries from the barricade, which was very unlike him. But Courfeyrac was just more important. Now that he was asleep, Joly had a bit of time to himself. Here in the other room, he looked at his left arm, which had a nasty cut on it.

Joly's better sense told him there was nothing serious about it. But the more he looked at it, the worse it looked to him. He shrank into a tight sitting position against the wall and stared at it with despair, thinking he saw that same horrid blackened flesh that infiltrated Courfeyrac's wounds. He thought about the surgery Courfeyrac just endured, at his own hands, and wondered if this was cosmic justice for the torture he'd put his friend through. Perhaps he deserved the pain of the operation and to go through life missing an arm as penance. For Courfeyrac and the peasant girl. Suddenly, the weight of everything overwhelmed him and his eyes began to water. He thought of their friends, particularly of Bossuet. Then his mind wandered to Enjolras and what terrible fate awaited their beloved leader. He thought of Musichetta; did she even know he was alive? How would he let her know? How would she bare the news of Bossuet's death? Joly, who had never felt any jealousy in their unorthodox relationship, wondered if it would become clear, now that he was gone, that she'd always loved Bossuet more. Things between her and Joly would never be the same; they would both feel his absence forever.

Now Joly was, like his other surviving comrades, a fugitive from the law. They would have to stay in hiding, maybe indefinitely. He couldn't go take his exams and begin his life as a physician any time soon. They would have to watch helplessly from the shadows and Enjolras went on trial. Joly had been so crushed when Javert had them convinced their chief was dead. He foolishly held out hope. But it was almost worse to realize he was alive but captive, because they would surely lose him all over again, in the most terrible of ways. The future looked so terribly bleak. Joly thought it only made sense now that he would develop a fatal or near fatal infection from his once minor wound.

Suddenly, he was disturbed by Combeferre, stepping into the room.

"Joly?" he asked quietly.

Joly looked up at him, but said nothing. His tear soaked face said everything. Combeferre had seen him studying the arm.

"May I look at it?" Combeferre asked gently, motioning to Joly's arm. He understood what was happening.

Joly took a deep, sighing breath and nodded. "I'm worried it's infected."

"Then I definitely need to see it," Combeferre replied. He slowly sat next to Joly and very delicately took the arm in his hands for a closer look. Combeferre knew before he even examined it that there was nothing seriously wrong with it. But he wouldn't insult Joly by chastising him now. He knew his friend was vulnerable, like all of them, so taking the time to indulge him was probably the best way to proceed. "I want to clean it up," he added.

They were in the room in which they'd operated on Courfeyrac earlier, so all of the medical supplies were close in hand. Combeferre quickly got a cool, wet cloth and some bandages.

"Does it itch or anything?" Combeferre asked, just as he would if he was legitimately concerned about infection. Joly shook his head. Combeferre gently dabbed the cloth along the cut; it stung a little, but Joly was stoic. With the dirt beginning to clear away, Joly felt terribly foolish. The cut looked fine, and likely it would heal uneventfully. He was so embarrassed; he tried to pull away.

"I'm sorry, I've wasted your time," said Joly.

"We should cover it," said Combeferre calmly. This part was true, the cut was big enough that covering it was wise.

"I'm such a fool," Joly muttered and hid his face in his other hand. Combeferre quickly wrapped the cut with clean bandages, then squeezed Joly's hand.

"You're a lot of things, my friend," Combeferre started, then put a hand on his face to force eye contact. He smiled gently. "But never a fool."

Joly took a deep breath and a few more tears escaped. "You know, they could always make me realize when I was being this way."

Combeferre knew who "they" were, so he nodded sympathetically.

"Now he's gone," said Joly. "He's just gone. I thought either we'd both come through or both not. He and his bad luck that he always talked about; I still never thought anything like this would ever actually happen to him."

Combeferre ached inside. He would miss Bossuet as badly as the rest of them, Jehan, Bahorel, Grantaire, even Marius, who still sometimes felt like an outsider. But he knew that this loss hurt Joly especially hard. Combeferre could empathize; he imagined that Joly's love for Bossuet was like his own for Enjolras. But Bossuet was already dead, and Joly had been given no opportunity to properly feel that grief. Combeferre wrapped his arm around Joly's shoulders and pulled him into a tight embrace.

"You know, I," Joly started. He took a deep breath. "I, we, we loved each other. It's hard to even say this, but I think I didn't love him any less than I love her. She loved us both, and I think I loved them both. Maybe not quite the same way, but... I don't know. I just, I just can't believe he's gone."

Combeferre just stroked his shoulder gently. The relationship between Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta was never something he could claim to understand, but he appreciated how much it meant to the people in it. But as it was so unconventional, Combeferre knew that it was no small thing for Joly to speak so candidly about it.

Then, much to Combeferre's surprise, Joly turned to him with an urgency in his face.

"I don't want you to loose Enjolras," he said. Combeferre was stunned. "I mean, I don't want any of us to loose him, for his own sake, but for yours too. Maybe its not the same, maybe its exactly the same, but I know what he means to you and I don't want you to hurt like this, Combeferre. We can't let him die! For just his own sake, for all of us, but even if it was just for you that would be enough. We have to save him."

Combeferre was speechless. He stared at Joly was astonishment and suddenly with gratitude he'd never felt before. When words continued to avoid him, he too broke down into tears and embraced Joly tightly. Words weren't necessary.

* * *

Feuilly was the one to answer the door. He'd been sitting with Courfeyrac and watching him closely while Combeferre and Joly were in the other room. When he heard the knock on the door, he knew that it would be suspicious not to answer it. In the worst case scenario, that it was police, not answering would only slightly delay them. So, Feuilly very calmly approached the door with a pistol at his side. When he stood up, he looked at Courfeyrac who seemed somewhere in between consciousness and oblivion.

"No one is getting in here," he said. Courfeyrac knew he meant it and felt safe. Then he closed his eyes and braced against the pain again until his awareness slipped away from him again.

Feuilly walked toward the door. Joly and Combeferre had heard too and they quietly armed themselves behind Feuilly as he undid the chain on the door.

"Who is it?" Feuilly called after taking a deep breath.

"Baudin," said the voice of an older man. Feuilly was confused, never having heard such a name.

"Open the door!" Combeferre instructed quickly. Feuilly obeyed and was surprised to see the elderly couple standing there. The woman looked frail, but she carried a broom and dust pan in her slender bony hands. Combeferre quickly went to greet them as they stepped inside.

"Oh, thank goodness, Monsieur Combeferre," said the wife.

"Please, Madame, Henri will do," he replied, then shook hands with her husband. "Feuilly, Joly, this is our landlord and lady." Both of his companions felt immediate relief. They were still armed, but the couple hardly seemed troubled by it.

"We could hear someone in distress earlier," began Monsieur Baudin. "I checked on the other tenants and I don't believe any one else did, but we want to know if there is anything we can do. Is someone injured?"

Combeferre nodded. "One of our comrades has lost a leg," he explained gravely.

"You amputated a limb in the apartment!" cried the landlord, horrified. Joly anxiously prepared to explain their choice, but the old man's wife spoke first.

"That's not what's important," said Madame Baudin to her husband. "What can we do to help to boy?"

"Perhaps come in here where we can talk," said Joly. They walked into the bedroom where Courfeyrac was resting. Feuilly gently woke him up and he moaned in pain, but gave his attention after Joly helped him take a sip of water.

"This is Courfeyrac," began Combeferre. "Monsieur and Madame Baudin own the building. They have been our most gracious hosts."

Courfeyrac smiled weakly and extended a hand to shake Monsieur Baudin's; his grip was very weak, but the old man appreciated the gesture.

"Are you in a lot of pain, son?" he asked.

"Not at all," said Courfeyrac with a little grin. Madame Baudin returned it sympathetically.

"Monsieur, Madame," Combeferre began. "I almost fear to bring this up, it's such a ghastly thing to even think about." He bit his lower lip, anxious about how exactly to say it. "But there is something we need help with."

"What is it, dear?" asked the old woman.

"Well," Combeferre started. He looked down at Courfeyrac, and cringed to think that he would have to hear them talk about this. He took a deep breath. "We have medical waste to dispose of."

"Oh, dear God," Courfeyrac muttered. He knew that the "medical waste" to which Combeferre referred was his severed right leg. The idea that it was in this apartment, detached from him and rotting from the summer heat and infection, just in the next room, made him nauseous. He started to wretch, so he reached feebly for the chamber pot which had taken up permanent residence within his reach on the bed for this reason.

"I'm sorry," Combeferre said softly to him, pushing his curly hair out of his face as he threw up into the pot.

Monsieur Baudin looked like he might be sick himself when he realized what they meant. "Medical waste?" he repeated dumbly, hoping his fear would be proven wrong.

Joly nodded grimly.

"What on earth are we to do with that!?" he exclaimed. Courfeyrac who had just finished vomiting, contorted his face in disgust.

"Burn the bloody thing!" Courfeyrac snapped. "Just please be rid of it quickly and never make me picture it again!"

To the complete shock of all the men in the room, it was Madame Baudin who broke the uncomfortable silence that followed.

"It seems to me," she began, clearing her throat. "That this is woman's work."

"Madame," Combeferre tried to interrupt her, but she wouldn't be interrupted.

"I will send for my daughter-in-law," she started. "Give us a few hours and we will have your little bedroom turned operating theatre restored completely."

"But what will you do with..." her husband asked, anxiously.

"Something similarly illegal to what has already transpired no doubt," she began. "It's likely best if you all don't know."

"But Madame," Feuilly persisted.

"Don't worry, gentlemen," she said slyly. "I have no intention of cooking it if that's what worries you. Just know that I will handle it and we will all now agree to spare Monsieur Courfeyrac the trauma of hearing further details. My husband too, though he has far less right to be traumatized."

And with that, the issue was put to rest. The men in the room would never admit it, but they were terribly glad to be relieved of that burden.

"Shall we sit?" Monsieur Baudin suggested. The boys nodded in quiet agreement and pulled up chairs around Courfeyrac's bed. Madame Baudin left the room quietly and quickly about her errand. She would go to fetch Marie, the young widowed wife of her only son, who lived in one of the apartments of the building. Together they would quietly do the horrid task of cleaning the room.

Back in the other room, the men began to talk.

"I haven't seen Monsieur Enjolras," said the landlord grimly. Combeferre just shook his head.

"They took him," Courfeyrac muttered.

"Alive?"

"Yes," Feuilly replied.

"Jesus," Baudin muttered. "He won't be for long."

Combeferre took a deep painful breath. "I have to figure out what to do. We can't, I can't, just leave him behind to such a fate."

"I'm not sure what you'll be able to do, son," said Baudin. "I'm so sorry. But if there is anything I can help you with, I will."

"Monsieur, you've taken enough of a risk by sheltering us," said Joly. "We won't endanger your family further."

"Boys, my wife and I are no fools," he began. "We knew exactly what business you had when you and Enjolras first approached us. We do this because we're too old to have been useful in other ways to the effort."

"Thank you, Monsieur," said Feuilly.

"Are you the only survivors?" Baudin asked.

"From our barricade, yes," Joly answered confidently. "It's impossible to tell about the others around the city, but our group is all gone but for us and Enjolras."

"I'm sorry."

"Wait," Courfeyrac mumbled. It was difficult for him to participate in the conversation because of the way the pain constantly threatened to overwhelm him. But at this moment, he felt compelled to speak up. "I'm not sure about that."

"Not sure about what?" Joly asked. It was hard to hear Courfeyrac with his weak, pained voice, so they all leaned in closer.

"Marius," said Courfeyrac. "I don't know what happened to Marius."

"Marius was shot," said Combeferre. He knew that Courfeyrac and Marius were rather close friends; in fact, they'd lived together for a rather long time when Marius seemed to have hit particularly bad financial straits. He had seen Marius take a bullet near the shoulder, surely he was dead. Yet Courfeyrac wasn't convinced, so Combeferre had the sad task of convincing him.

"No," said Courfeyrac. "I know he was shot. I saw him lying on the ground, then a little later, he just vanished."

"Someone moved his body, most likely," said Joly.

"That doesn't make sense," Courfeyrac insisted. "This was near the end of the battle. When we were being bombarded. No one would have bothered with the effort of moving a dead man then. It would have been suicide!" The more he argued, the more the memories came back to him, and he suddenly became almost fully certain that someone had rescued a still living Marius and carried him from the barricade. "I think he might be alive!"

"Courfeyrac," Combeferre began. "You've been through quite an ordeal. It's only natural that you would hope for..."

"Damn it, Combeferre, don't talk to me that way!" Courfeyrac snapped. "I'm not delusional, I'm just telling you what I remember! If he was carried off, we have to try to find him! What if he's been thrown in prison too? Would we just leave him to it?"

"Of course not!" Combeferre snapped. "It's just really unlikely I think. And how would we even go about finding out? What are you proposing, Courfeyrac? Let's go file a missing person report with the police! I'm sure they'll love to help us find the missing fellow insurgent! Then maybe we'll be lucky and they'll put us all in the same cell."

Courfeyrac glared at him furiously.

"Combeferre," Feuilly started. "That's enough."

"I'm sorry," Combeferre muttered unconvincingly. "We'll figure out what to do."

"That's all I ask," said Courfeyrac. He wanted to be harsh about it, but he didn't have it in him. He hated being so weak; normally standing up to Combeferre when they disagreed about something was no big deal. But now he felt like he was being marginalized and he wasn't used to it.

Combeferre sat back in his chair. He instantly felt bad for shutting Courfeyrac down like that. He knew he was right; if there was a chance that Marius was alive, they owed it to him to try to find him and help him if he was in trouble. Combeferre felt the burden of being the default leader weighing heavily on him. Enjolras handled this role so much better; Combeferre doubted every decision he made. Now he thought about the serious piece of information he'd been withholding from them, and suddenly he felt like a terrible failure as a leader. They needed to know this and he'd waited far too long to tell them.

"There's something you all need to know," he said, clearing his breath. Feuilly, Joly and Courfeyrac looked at him anxiously. Monsieur Baudin looked on with interest.

"What is it?" Joly asked.

Combeferre took a deep breath.

"Inspector Javert is dead."


End file.
